


Playing Hooky

by detectivejigsaw



Series: Flipside AU [11]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Black Doves, Dan is the MVP, F/M, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Pines boys are idiots, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Separation Anxiety, Slightly Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, flipside AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23854855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/pseuds/detectivejigsaw
Summary: The boys use different methods to try to cope with their trauma from the previous story; this includes Ford building a trap to contain the black doves so he can study them, and Stan trying to help, and simultaneously prove to himself that he's fine.This will not end well.
Relationships: "Manly" Dan Corduroy & Ford Pines & Stan Pines, "Manly" Dan Corduroy/Wendy Corduroy's Mother, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Flipside AU [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587223
Comments: 364
Kudos: 156





	1. So this was how things stood

The people of Gravity Falls were a little confused by the fact that they had not seen either of the Pines boys for almost two weeks now.

I mean, the one who’d showed up in their town first, Dr. Pines, had always been reclusive, but they were used to at least seeing Stanley once a week, to buy groceries if nothing else. In fact, for a while nobody had realized that there  _ was _ more than one Pines, until they’d both come into town one day and nearly given Ma and Pa Duskerton double heart attacks.

But nobody had seen them lately except for Dan Corduroy, who lived near their cabin and seemed to have taken on the role of their official caretaker/spokesman/guard dog. And if anyone asked him what was up with the Pines, he just said that they were doing some very important research right now that they couldn’t be separated from, and please nobody disturb them.

He said the same thing to the groups of anomalies, monsters and cryptids who came around to the gift shop or the house, except for the ones who needed to get haircuts or similar cosmetic work done; these were allowed to have their appointments with Stan in the yard. Tours of the town to see what humanity was like were given by Dan, or not at all.

The Pines house had become basically cut off from the rest of the world.

Even though this whole situation sounds kind of like the plotline of that one psychological horror film starring Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in 1962, Dan enforced this isolation because he really did have the boys’ best interests at heart.

The last time they had been left to their own devices, they disappeared for four days because they were captured and tortured by a group of creatures calling themselves ‘black doves,’ who fed on their pain (and had started trying to create their own never-ending supply of it by forcing them to hurt each other); in the end Dan had to be the one to go and rescue them. Ergo, as far as he was concerned they were grounded until further notice.

...Don’t get me wrong, he did realize that maybe he was overreacting just a little. After all, they had probably learned their lesson about recklessly going off into dangerous situations (for now, anyway), and it would be beneficial for them to adjust back into their normal routine sooner rather than later. It was possible that he was being too overprotective of them, and he should back off.

But he couldn’t help it.

He’d already lost one set of brothers; he couldn’t lose another.

* * *

The floor of Stan’s room had become covered in drawings.

Some of them were lighthearted, dorky, silly “L’il Stanley” comics, like he’d made when he was a kid before getting his hopes and dreams for a great comic empire shut down. They were clumsily put together sketches made with whatever pens and colored pencils he’d scrounged up, bright and colorful, nonsensical.

Others, though…

Others were drawn in different shades of black and gray pencil, and, after Ford provided him with it, charcoal-and their subjects were far less cheery.

These pages were almost entirely black, the art done in a series of sharp lines and vicious scrawling, forming shapes that might not make sense to the average viewer, but were all too clear to him.

Cloudy dark shapes swarming around two helpless figures, drawn over and over.

He occasionally used red too, putting it in long runny lines down the back and shoulders of a kneeling form.

The pictures were horrific (and not just because the proportions usually felt all wrong, or they were too hard to make out clearly, or a myriad of other problems)...but he felt like they helped, kind of.

Drawing them out made it easier to sleep, like it pulled the images out of his brain so they wouldn’t haunt his dreams.

Rubbing his tired eyes (and not caring if he was getting black smears all over his face), Stan grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal and started a new picture.

* * *

The dreamcatcher sat on a table in the basement, gathering dust.

It was woven with delicate strands of unicorn hair that had been braided together and then used to create a web across a small metal hoop, which was then decorated with feathers (apparently belonging to a thunderbird who’d been in an unusually generous mood) and a few colored beads.

However, three of the beads in the center of the “web” were an odd, smoky gray-black color, in contrast with the surrounding brightness.

These beads were all that remained of the black doves who had been trapped, and they were likely to remain in that form for as long as the dreamcatcher remained unbroken.

Stan had suggested just putting it in a locked box and dropping it in the bottomless pit. It was an admittedly tempting idea...but at the same time, Ford thought there was much he could learn about these creatures, which would be beneficial if they ever had to deal with them or others like them again-and even if they didn’t, it would be useful for his research on Gravity Falls weirdness. So instead, he’d been designing a trap for them in a corner of the basement, with the intent of using all the components of a dreamcatcher to make it.

The problem, of course, was figuring out how to arrange it so that the black doves could be put into it, and set loose from their current trap, without giving them a chance to get out. Because if they did, they would most definitely come after him and Stanley again-

Ford shook himself, and went back to drawing the blueprints.

_ I am a scientist. I am rational. I am not going to let myself be controlled by my fears. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Whatever happened to Baby Jane?" is a scary film.  
> Just trust me on this.
> 
> Also, I took a few art classes while I was getting my bachelor's, and I loved drawing with charcoal. It's an excuse to be as messy as you like with your art, and you can do shading just by smearing your fingers all over the thing if you want. It really feels like a style of art that would suit Stan.


	2. Stan Pines nearly changes his name to Sweeney Todd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: potentially uncomfortable images ahead.  
> They don't last very long, but still.

There was a tap on the door.

“Stanley? The unicorns are here for their haircuts.”

With a small sigh, Stan put aside his art supplies, grabbing up a bag of hair salon supplies and some pictures of women with different hairstyles, and clomped to the door, only opening it enough for him to slip out.

Ford gave him a puzzled glance that was probably directed at his secrecy, but he just grunted a soft “Thanks,” and headed downstairs.

* * *

This was nice, he thought to himself as he passed out the photos to his clients and told them to let him know if any of the styles tickled their fancies, and he got set up. Doing something part of his normal routine, and that involved interacting with other people instead of being holed up in the house, was nice.

Even if the people he was interacting with were unicorns.

It helped that he had a higher tolerance for their more obnoxious traits than Ford did, probably because he understood better how to handle them. They were naturally self-righteous, egocentric creatures; this made them annoying, but also very easy to manipulate because you could get them to do anything you wanted as long as you made them think it would improve their appearance or social life.

In a way, they weren’t too different from humans.

Stan lost himself in the routine of cutting and trimming, while around him the unicorns gossiped with each other about the doings of their fellow forest dwellers and what so-and-so had said about what’s-her-face, and had you heard about that dwarf getting married to an elf, so shocking, she’d never dreamed of such a thing happening in a million years, are you listening to me Stanley?

He jolted, and looked down at Celestabellebethabelle, whose hair he was currently working on. “Sorry, what?”

_ “I was saying,” _ she said tartly,  _ “that I heard you and your brother had a little incident with the pain-eaters a few weeks ago.” _

She had no idea how close she came to having her ear chopped off in his alarm; he barely moved the scissors in time.

“...Yeah.” He mentally shook himself, and went back to cutting her bangs.

_ “Well, you’re lucky to be alive! Most of the people who’ve run into that group of freaks weren’t so lucky! Flutterflufferbuttershy was just telling me the other day how she saw what happened to one of them, weren’t you, Flutters?” _

A small yellow unicorn with a long pink mane looked up shyly from her magazine.  _ “Um-I-yes, it was-it was terrible, they-” _

_ “There was hardly anything left!” _ C-beth overrode her, looking like she wanted to throw her head back dramatically but barely remembered in time that she was getting her hair cut.  _ “Just a pile of clothes and some empty skin and a few tufts of beard hair-of course, it had been a gnome, so they finished him pretty quickly...” _

Suddenly Stan couldn’t hear what she was saying all that well anymore. The edges of his hearing had gone all...funny, like a bomb had gone off right next to him. His vision was fizzing in and out at the edges, and he could see that his hands had started trembling, and he was suddenly too hot and too cold at the same time.

_ Keep it together, Stan, _ he scolded himself, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.  _ Everything’s fine. You’re fine. Just ignore the dumb unicorn and finish cutting her hair so she’ll go away. _

He opened his eyes-but Celestabellebethabelle was gone.

Instead, lying in front of him was a set of familiar nerdy clothes, empty except for a long strip of flesh barely sticking out of the top, with a shock of dark hair at the end. One lock of it was currently trapped between the edges of his scissors, which had suddenly become splattered with red-

Stan hurriedly let go, they dropped onto the steps with a  _ ka-thump _ -

And then Celestabellebethabelle was whipping her head around with a startled whinny, and everyone was staring at him like he’d just yelled out a string of obscenities or something.

Stan wondered if maybe he had without realizing it.

But he blinked a few times, used his arm to wipe off the layer of sweat which had suddenly appeared on his forehead, and took a few deep breaths in and out.

_ It’s fine. It was just a hallucination. No bloody scissors here. _

He knelt and grabbed up the scissors, putting on his best nonchalant smile.

“Sorry-I was tryna scare off a horsefly.”

The unicorns collectively shuddered, and looked around frantically in case the nonexistent horsefly was about to try to bite one of them. All but Flutter-butter-whatever, who was giving him a slightly concerned stare.

_ “Um-are you okay? You look paler than humans usually are-” _

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He hacked off the next chunk of hair with a little more vindictiveness than he’d meant to, and had to make the part next to it a little shorter so it would be even.

* * *

Even when he worked on the other unicorns, Stan could feel chills running up and down his spine, and an uncomfortable stinging in his eyes which he had to keep back by blinking hard and staring up at the sky intermittently. He tried to focus on the hair, on the many rainbow colors which  _ thankfully _ didn’t have any shades of red in them, on anything that seemed like it would calm him down until he could go inside.

After the unicorns finally left (not a minute too soon), he gathered up his payment and the hair samples and hurried inside, dumping them in the living room and heading for the stairs-

At the last moment, he stopped and headed for the basement instead.

He knew it was stupid and he was overreacting to the stupid unicorn’s stupid words-but he had to check, just in case.

He crept down the stairs as quietly as he could, reaching the point where he could see the main floor of the basement without coming into view himself-

And there Ford was, sitting at his desk with his journal open in front of him, busily scribbling away.

He was fine.

Stan sagged down onto the steps with relief, biting down on the part of his hand between his thumb and his pointer finger, trying to take deep, measured breaths through his nose to help his heart calm down faster, using his other hand to wipe his eyes quickly.

He planned to get up and go back to his room, now that he knew his brother was okay...but without his meaning them to he felt his heavy eyes slide shut, and he leaned his head against the wall as all his energy drained away at once.

In less than a minute his breathing had fallen into the steady, even rhythm of those who are deeply asleep.


	3. Ford plays with fire (in other news, the pope is Catholic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know about as much about lumberjacking as I do about neurosurgery (i.e. enough to know it exists and some of the basics, but not enough to describe it in fully accurate detail).  
> Sorry.

One of the definite upsides to being proclaimed the king of the manotaurs was that your workdays got significantly easier.

Not that Dan worked any less hard than usual; you could call him many things, but a slacker was not one of them unless you wanted to find out what it was like to lose all your teeth simultaneously.

But the logging jobs he was given were finished more quickly when your crew consisted of a large group of bull men with muscles the size of bowling balls who believed that they were too manly to need breaks all that often. It also helped that they had a pretty big herd, so if one or two of them did collapse from heat exhaustion because they didn’t listen to Dan when he told them to stop and take a break, there were others there who could take their place. And after this happened for the twelfth time they stopped arguing with him when he said to take a break, so the process went even more smoothly than before.

It was a very satisfied Dan Corduroy who at last headed home at the end of the day (having finished a job that would have taken him four days at least to do by himself), planning to make himself a quick dinner before going to check on the dorks and making sure they hadn’t blown themselves up or summoned eldritch abominations from the depths of the ocean or something (he had the utmost faith in them being capable of doing either or both of the above in the amount of time he’d left them alone).

He was just driving down the dirt road to his cabin, however, when he saw a figure standing about halfway down, holding out her thumb and looking very unamused.

Dan’s truck screeched to a halt, and he sheepishly rolled down the window.

“...Hey, Matt.”

Matilda Blerble was normally a very calm, laidback girl, which was kind of a miracle considering what her home life was like. When she was displeased, however, even her muscled lumberjack boyfriend was afraid of her. And when she was displeased with  _ him _ …

Well, this next part should kind of speak for itself.

Matilda nearly pulled the truck door off its hinges as she yanked it open and hoisted herself inside, glaring daggers at him.

“You mind telling me why this is the first time I’ve seen you in two weeks, Daniel? And why you haven’t been picking up your phone? And why you’ve been spending almost all your time hiding out at the mad scientist’s shack?”

_ Crap. She went for the full name. _

There would be no weaseling or lying his way out of this (not that he was much in the habit of either, but right now he was sorely tempted to do so).

Dan cringed, and his shoulders hunched in a little. “...It’s complicated-”

“So uncomplicate it.” Matilda folded her arms and planted her feet on the dashboard, indicating that she wasn’t going anywhere unless she got some answers.

Dan bit his lip, and struggled for words for a second, before finally saying, “These guys ran into some trouble out in the woods and got hurt. I’ve just been kinda lookin’ after them, makin’ sure they take some time ta rest up and don’t do anything else stupid for a while.”

“What kind of trouble?” Then her eyes lit up with clarity. “ _ Weird _ trouble?”

Despite what Ford had assumed, a lot of the people of Gravity Falls were very familiar with-and what’s more,  _ accepting _ of-the fact that their little town was several gallons shy of normality. Not all of them, of course, but those who were aware had learned to deal with the occasional gnomes eating out of their trash or two-headed goats showing up by the river thanks to the Northwests’ mudflap factory. It could be a little freaky, yes, but hey, it was home.

Dan nodded. “They ran into these things called pain-eaters, and I had ta go save them. By the way, you don’t have a dreamcatcher in your room, do you?”

Matilda raised an eyebrow at him. “You know that I don’t.”

His cheeks turned almost the same color as his beard, but his shoulders relaxed; if she’d started making jokes, that meant she’d let go of her anger to some extent. “I needa make one for you, then, in case more of them show up. They and warm milk are the best defenses against ‘em.”

“What did they do to your buddies?”

Dan grimaced. “A lotta messed-up stuff so they could feed on their pain.”

“...Are they doing okay?” Now she looked more concerned than anything.

“I’ve been asking around the forest, seein’ if there’s anyone who knows about head shrinking.” Unfortunately, several of the creatures he’d asked had taken this too literally, and just directed him to a witch doctor who lived on the other side of the mountains.

“I can help, if you want. Ask around,” Matilda offered. “There’s gotta be a good psychiatrist somewhere around here who knows about the weird stuff.”

Dan smiled at her. “That’d be nice. Thanks.”

He was just starting up the truck again, when she put a hand on his arm.

“How about you? Are  _ you _ doing okay?”

Dan exhaled loudly through his nose. “Yeah, I’m fine.” And he quickly flipped on the radio, deterring further talk for the moment.

* * *

The trick to trapping the black doves seemed to be creating a sort of dreamcatcher dome, Ford had decided. He was thinking it would be at either chest or head height, with a six foot diameter, giving him ample time to observe the creatures once they were inside it. Though on second thought, it might be better to make it a complete sphere, on the off chance that they’d be able to phase through the floor; he was taking no chances when it came to these monsters. This was going to require a lot of unicorn hair, and at least two really big hula hoops.

That decided, he began to sketch out a design, noticing with relief that his hands were no longer shaking. He calculated and thought, concluding that among other things he would need to keep some warm milk on hand in case the worst should happen and the black doves escaped. It would be a lot easier if he could put them into the trap one by one, but Dan had said that breaking the dreamcatcher would mean freeing all of them at once. Pity, but he had to work with what was available to him.

At last Ford sat back in his chair, considering where a good place would be to find two giant metal hoops. And what’s more, how to persuade Dan to let him leave the house and get them, or persuade the lumberjack to get them, instead of ranting at him for doing something “dangerous and stupid,” which was most likely going to be his knee-jerk response.

It wasn’t like he didn’t realize that this was dangerous; he just didn’t see why that should stop him from doing it anyway. And why was it stupid to want to learn more about your enemy so you could protect yourself from them more thoroughly in the future?

_ This is probably going to take a lot of jerky. _

Ford got up and stretched, working some of the stiffness out of his back and neck, and after a moment’s thought he headed for the stairs so he could go make sure their jerky supply was still ample-

And then he saw Stanley.

Ford blinked; he hadn’t heard his twin come down here. It wasn’t that unusual for him to be oblivious to all else when he got lost in a project, but he was startled that Stan hadn’t at least tried to get his attention. Unless, of course, he had, and eventually given up and gone to sleep (which would also not be that unusual).

Stan didn’t look too great; his eyes were as heavy and dark as Ford’s usually were, and he didn’t seem to have shaved or changed clothes in recent memory. It reminded Ford uncomfortably of when his twin had first showed up outside his front door.

He cleared his throat softly. “Stanley?”

For once, that wasn’t enough to startle his brother into wakefulness. He knew better than to actually touch him just yet, though; instead he kicked the stair that Stan’s feet were resting on, and called his name again, a little louder.

Stan’s eyes flew open, and for a moment they were wide with panic-before he saw Ford standing there, and he exhaled long and shaky.

“You done down here?” he asked, standing up and trying to act like it was perfectly normal for him to have fallen asleep on the stairs in the middle of the day. “I’m gonna make some tacos for dinner. You want a taco? I got a good recipe.”

“Why were you down here?”

It didn’t seem like anything  _ urgent _ had happened, if Stan had relaxed enough to doze off...but Ford's instincts were telling him that all was not well.

“Eh, I just wanted ta see what you’re up to.” Stan shrugged.

Ford was skeptical that that was Stan’s only reason for coming down here...but he decided to let it go until or unless he wanted to talk about it.

“I’ve been figuring out how to trap our friends. I think I have the basic schematics worked out, but we’re going to need some special equipment to make it a reality.”

Stan grimaced. “Still not gonna just drop them in the bottomless pit, huh?”

“Not until I can at least find out why they started craving more pain than just fear from nightmares,” Ford said firmly. “The fact that they were acting differently from regular members of their species is significant, Stanley. I want to know  _ why _ .”

Stan shrugged again. “It’s probably the same reason people get addicted to anything else: they got a taste of the different stuff and liked it, so they decided they needed more of it.”

“Which is an excellent conjecture, but that’s not the same as actual facts.”

“Whatever.” And Stan headed upstairs.

Ford followed him, deciding that a taco sounded surprisingly good right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Ford's deciding to actually eat on his own; either it's the end of the world as we know it, or Stan's being a good influence on him.


	4. There's a saying about the road to hell...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mayday! Mayday!
> 
> Yes, I am aware of what time it is, and that I was up too late.  
> Time in a conventional sense no longer exists for me. It's like Weirdmageddon, but with less being chased around by chaotic monsters and getting turned to stone or eaten or whatever.

They decided to eat out on the porch; it had been a while since Ford had seen any natural sunlight (or unnatural sunlight, for that matter), and he was starting to look a little like a vam-like a  _ zombie _ .

For a while they were quiet, save for the sounds of eating, just enjoying the sunset and the calls of birds fluttering over their heads as they tried to escape the giant vampire bats who were coming out to hunt.

A mixture of hot sauce, guacamole and little bits of ground beef dripped from the corner of Stan’s mouth; he wiped it with his hand, and Ford automatically passed him a napkin. He rolled his eyes in an “ _ ugh _ , you’re such a prudish  _ dork _ ” way, but he did use it to clean himself up.

“Whaddya need for the trap?” Stan finally asked, after taking a gulp of his soda.

“Two large metal hoops.” Ford turned to the pages where he’d been working out the blueprints. “Or at least pieces of metal that can be shaped into hoops, which will be fitted together crosswise so they form a kind of giant sphere. We will then wind the sphere with strands of unicorn hair in a web pattern, which will look something like this.” He showed Stan the picture he’d drawn of it.

“...Maybe we oughta put beads and feathers on it too, just in case,” Stan said after a moment.

“I think those are just accessories, Stanley.” Then, after a moment of thought, “But it’s probably better not to take the chance that they aren’t.”

“Well, we just got a fresh supply of unicorn hair, so that shouldn’t be a problem at least.” Stan took another swallow of Pitt cola.

“Mmm.” Ford chewed his pen thoughtfully.

Just then, Dan’s truck appeared down the road, approaching rapidly before coming to a full stop in front of the house.

Since he made a habit of checking in on them every night (sometimes during the day too, if he got the chance), this wasn’t unusual to either of the boys.

What  _ was _ unusual was when the passenger-side door opened, and a tall, willowy girl climbed out.

She had long, dark hair with a braid woven into it on one side, and long legs encased in dark jeans that appeared to have been doodled on with markers. Despite her height, she still barely came up to Dan’s chest, and Stan would bet anything you liked that both her hands could fit into one of his and there would still be room for him to pick up the handle of his axe (though of course, given the size of Dan’s hands that was a given for a lot of other people too).

Stan’s jaw dropped.

“ _ That’s _ Dan’s girlfriend?”

Ford looked equally bemused. “I’m guessing so.”

“But she’s  _ ho _ -” Stan coughed. “...She’s different than what I was expecting.”

“...You thought she’d be a female version of Dan, perhaps?” Ford asked, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Did you think she  _ wouldn’t  _ be like that?”

A blush rose on the older twin’s face, before he made a noncommittal ‘ahem’ noise in the back of his throat and looked hurriedly back down at his journal.

“Guys, this is Matilda,” Dan said as he and the girl reached the porch. “Thought it was time for you ta finally meet each other.”

The girl smiled at them warmly. “So you’re the ones Dan’s been babysitting.”

“Nice of you ta call it that instead of ‘putting us under house arrest,’” Stan said dryly, flinching as Ford elbowed him. “I mean, hi.”

To his relief, she was yet another person who didn’t seem all that confused or repulsed by Ford’s hands; she just offered them each a high five, and then made herself comfortable leaning against one of the pillars holding the roof up while Dan sat down on the steps.

For a while they chatted about a few random things (‘they’ being mainly Stan and Matilda; Ford didn’t like doing small talk if he could possibly avoid it, and Dan seemed content to just sit and wait for them to finish). At last, though, Matilda asked, “So, are you guys doing okay?”

Stan had a brief mental image of the little incident from earlier that day, and another about the current state of his room.

“...I’m survivin’.”

Ford nodded in agreement. “Granted, I think we’re both getting a little stir-crazy from being cooped up here so long.”

“It’s for your own good,” Dan grunted. “You guys nearly gave me a heart attack this last time, and I don’t trust you not ta do somethin’ else stupid if ya go explorin’ on your own.”

“Yeah, but this is gettin’ kinda excessive,” Stan argued for the sixteenth time, even though he knew it was probably an exercise in futility. “You know you can’t keep us here if we really wanna go somewhere.”

The lumberjack started to bristle-until Matilda lightly kicked him with the toe of her boot. They looked at each other, and some kind of unspoken conversation passed between them that was not unlike the ones the twins sometimes had with each other.

At last Dan sighed. “I know, okay. I just…” He scowled and stood up. “Ah, forget it.” He stood up and stalked towards the truck.

Matilda made an exasperated noise. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him.” She chased after her boyfriend and climbed into the truck on the other side.

“...Whaddya think that’s all about?” Stan asked as they watched them drive away.

Ford, however, was equally nonplussed.

“...Maybe we should hold off on telling him about the thing you’re plannin’ ta build in the basement.”

“Agreed.”

Despite his reservations on the idea of the black dove trap, Stan realized that at this juncture, it would be easier to help Ford build the thing and supervise the process to make sure nothing disastrous happened than to try to talk him out of it. So when he finally went to bed (with a small candle sitting on the desk; as humiliating as it was, neither of them were comfortable sleeping in full darkness anymore), he was still thinking about the problem of where to find a pair of giant metal hoops that could be used for it…

And then, in the early hours of the morning, inspiration struck.

* * *

As usual, Ford didn’t get much sleep that night. But for the first time in a while, it was based more on a project he was working on instead of bad memories. The bad memories were still part of it, of course, but he was also calculating, considering, working out a contingency plan in case everything went pear-shaped and the doves got free…

_ Does anyone make fully metal hula hoops? _

_ No, that’s ridiculous. Maybe in town they have some large enough barrels that would suffice, the metal rings that wrap around the wood to hold them together… _

_ Or maybe they don’t need to be metal at all-maybe any kind of large, solid circle could work-unless the hoop on the dreamcatcher Dan used to trap them in the first place is made of iron and that’s part of the magic- _

_ I need more data-maybe I can sneak out and go visit the gnomes, see if they know anything useful? Though Dan would probably kill me. _

_ And I’d have to let Stanley know because otherwise he might freak out-or better, just bring him with me… _

Ford rolled onto his back-thankfully he was able to do that now with barely any pain, aside from some lingering soreness in his ribs and shoulder. He rested his arm over his forehead, and continued to think.

He didn’t realize he’d actually fallen asleep until he opened his eyes because sunlight was hitting him in the face.

With a groan Ford fumbled around for his glasses, until he realized that he’d pushed them up onto his forehead and they had slid off onto his pillow.

He put them on, and sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair and waiting a moment for his mind to wake up a little.

_ No dreams last night. Not that I can remember, anyway. _

_ That’s progress, right? _

As his heavy eyelids lightened, he finally decided to check and see if Stanley was awake-and if he was, to ask for his input on the hoops, if he had any. Because while Stan wasn’t as scientifically-minded as he was, his unconventional thought processes had proven on multiple occasions to be capable of coming up with unique solutions to problems or worries.

That settled, Ford got up and padded down the hall to his brother’s room. He was just about to knock-when he saw a note taped to the door, with “Sixer” written on it.

Ford, feeling suddenly very nervous, pulled it down and opened it.

It was a very short, succinct note, written in Stan’s untidy scrawl.

_ Gone to get something that might help with the trap. _

_ Don’t tell Dan. _

Up until this point, Ford had been feeling more or less normal for the first time in days.

And he didn’t know why exactly that changed now...except that the idea that Stan was  _ gone _ , that he had just decided to  _ leave _ without telling Ford, leaving only a stupid  _ note  _ while he went off who-knows-where-

It was suddenly hard for Ford to breathe.

He staggered, bracing his hand against the door in an attempt to keep his balance and calm himself down-

And it swung open, because Stan hadn’t closed it all the way when he left, so Ford ended up lunging into his room.

His bare feet landed on pieces of paper, which crackled and rustled loudly.

Ford looked down, and saw  _ that place _ , drawn over and over and over, laid out beneath him...and before him...and spread all over the floor, and in messy piles around the desk, and on the desk, and even hanging on the wall.

It was everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you asked for this, Artistic Arteries.  
> Are you satisfied?
> 
> I think I'm gonna give GreenIrishEyes more tissues, just in case. 🤧🤧🤧🤧


	5. Stan is stubborn and not being kind to himself (in other news, the pope is still Catholic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some artistic license is taken regarding the geography of the woods of Gravity Falls here.  
> Just bear with me on this.
> 
> Also, trigger warning: another panic attack.

The way Stan saw it, the main problem they had to deal with to create the trap was not finding materials to build it. Dan had collected several hoops that could be used to build dreamcatchers when he set out to rescue them from the black doves.

No, the problem was making them the right _size_. And he had remembered a very simple solution from Ford’s journal.

**_The other day I was chasing after a group of gnomes, trying to make them give back my one pair of dress shoes (they claimed that their queen needed them-but what a presumed female of royal heritage would want with the shoes of a scientist who admittedly doesn’t wash his feet as often as he should is beyond me), and fell into a giant footprint._ **

**_As I regained my balance, and my glasses, I looked around and realized that it was technically a giant PAWprint-the size of a small car, at least._ **

There was then a sketch of the pawprint, which looked like it belonged to a mountain lion or something, and a few of Ford’s nerdy observations scribbled around it.

**_In my absorption in studying it, unfortunately the gnomes got away with my shoes. I really need to change the locks at some point, and put sturdier screens on the windows._ **

**_Despite this setback, I was able to content myself for a while in studying this pawprint, and searching for more so I could perhaps determine the creature’s stride. I have heard stories about this region of the forest, specifically about animals having different proportions than usual-miniature buffalo, giant squirrels and so on._ **

**_I was only able to find one more giant pawprint before they abruptly vanished-at some point I will have to come back and investigate further._ **

Stan had a hunch that this was the best place to look for something that could cause changes in size.

So he copied out the small map Ford had drawn of where the part of the forest was onto a clean piece of paper, packed a backpack with weapons that could protect against almost literally _any_ type of attack, be it physical or magical, and then set off into the woods after leaving a note for Ford.

* * *

Aside from the fact that he was alone, walking through the forest with a full backpack gave Stan a few uncomfortable flashes of deja vu.

But at the same time, it was a nice spring morning in May; the warm sunshine helped to push away memories of pitch-black caves and seemingly-endless screaming, and it felt good to be out of the house, with room to breathe and move around. Stan walked with an odd amount of bliss, wondering when the last time was that he’d done something like this: just gone for a walk, by himself, for no other reason than to just enjoy the scenery.

_Probably when I was a kid. And even then, I’d usually have Ford with me._

Stan grimaced at the reminder of his brother; he hoped that as soon as he woke up he’d just go down to the basement, and never even realize Stan was gone until he got back and surprised him with the solution he needed to complete the trap. That’d be perfect.

Stan maneuvered around trees and over rocks, giving his body a workout it hadn’t had in a while until he found a smooth, sloping area and headed downhill. He ambled down it, eyes on the map, which had a big question mark at the end. This meant that he walked right into the giant caterpillar.

It was like slamming into a very squishy green wall; Stan smashed face-first into it, and was knocked off balance, falling to the ground with a startled yell.

He looked up, pushing his bangs out of his eyes, and his jaw dropped.

Standing there, munching busily on a pine tree with its mandibles, was a caterpillar the size of a Sherman tank.

“Whoa,” Stan breathed, staring at it. He pulled himself up, hoping his back wasn’t bruised from colliding with the heavy backpack when he fell, and edged gingerly around the caterpillar.

_This is definitely the right place. Now I just needa figure out how-_

A herd of tiny deer went bounding past, leaping right over his feet as they went. They were almost like windup toys, except their movements were more fluid and graceful. For a moment Stan just watched them, transfixed. And then he looked up-and saw the weird crystals growing in the middle of the clearing.

One side emitted a shiny pink light, and the other had a light blue one, like the inside of a baby store. Stan ambled towards it, giving his head a thoughtful tilt for a moment before he decided to do an experiment: he reached out and put his hand into the pink light.

Seconds later he was going through the _very_ bizarre experience of watching and feeling his hand shrink, and barely remembered in time to pull it away before it disappeared altogether.

_...Maybe that wasn’t the best idea ever._

_But on the bright side, it does mean that now I can do this!_

Tucking the map under his arm, he held his hands up...and tapped them together lightly.

“Baby high five!’

Stan laughed at himself, marveling at his new tiny baby-sized hand, which looked really wrong when it was still at the end of his normal-sized wrist and arm. It still felt fine, he could still wiggle his fingers and bend it and stuff...but it was tiny.

“I could make my own freak show with this baby!” Stan said, looking at the crystal and thinking of all the possibilities: a guy with a very tiny head, another guy with a normal set of legs and a mini upper body…

Except that Ford would say it was insensitive. Which it probably was.

Acting on a hunch, Stan headed to the other end of the crystal, and put his hand in the blue light. Unfortunately, this time he left his hand in a little too long, and soon it looked like he had a baseball mitt at the end of his arm.

It took a few minutes of experimentation before Stan had his hand back to normal size; even then he checked several times to make sure it matched the other one.

Of course, that particular crystal was way too big to take home; but he managed to dig out a few smaller ones from the ground nearby, stuffing them into his pack. That done, he decided to head home.

* * *

Stan strolled happily up the slope, ignoring the way his legs were starting to get sore from all this walking after spending so long in inactivity; he probably oughta fix that.

 _Eh, when Ford sees that I made it back home safe after goin’ out by myself,_ and _contributed somethin’ valuable to his project, he’ll help me gang up on Dan and get him ta get off our backs about goin’ adventurin’ again, so I can do all the walkin’ I want._

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize where he’d wandered to at first.

When he did, he skidded to a halt.

Somehow, his feet had taken him to the edge of the very last place he wanted to go right now.

Up in the distance, he could see the broken-down church, just like it had been the last time he’d seen it.

Stan’s heart dropped into his stomach, splashing his innards; suddenly he couldn’t get enough air, and he could feel his hands shaking just like they had yesterday.

His first instinct was to turn and run away as fast as possible and never ever _EVER_ go near it again-and in fact, he had just taken a step back to do exactly that-

But then Stan went to his default reaction when he was scared, and ashamed of himself for being scared.

He got mad.

_It’s just a stupid church._

_The pain-eaters aren’t there anymore, and there’s nothing else there that’s gonna hurt me._

_I’m not gonna let this dumb place scare me._

So, with a shake of his shoulders, Stan straightened his back, and began to purposefully walk towards it, ignoring the little tremors running through his limbs as he got closer and closer.

And, for a minute, it actually worked.

Stan made it to the broken-down doors with the strength of his rage at himself for getting freaked out over a pathetic building, one that wasn’t even haunted or nothin’, he was going to go inside and _prove_ that he was strong enough to get over this-!

Stan’s feet stopped in their tracks when he saw the broken spot in the floorboards that was the entrance to the hellhole.

For a moment it looked like there was a coil of black smoke coming out of it, hovering in the air about to strike-but no, Stan blinked, and it was just a long vine that was dangling into the hole.

His heart was beating way too fast now, like it was trying to plead with him to get out of here before he got dragged back in again-

And this time he’d be all alone, he wouldn’t have Ford there-

But that was better, wasn’t it, Ford would be safe that way, he wouldn’t be forced to hurt him again to feed the pain-eaters-

_Stop it stop it stop it nothing’s wrong you’re not going back in you don’t have to you can leave whenever you want-_

Though he told himself the message, his feet suddenly wouldn’t move.

All Stan could do was stand on jellylike legs in the doorway, trying to make himself breathe as his vision fizzed in and out at the edges, and try to persuade himself that the screams and gleeful hissing echoing in his ears were just bad memories flooding back all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good intentions, Stan, but I think you're trying to do too much too quickly.
> 
> Sorry if I offend anyone with the reference to freak shows; that was not my intention.


	6. Lean on me (at least until you feel better, because then I’m going to KILL you Stanley why couldn’t you just grAUUUGHsjjjeta*wyha!ehto$%$#)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: references to self-harm. Just really briefly, but still.

Somehow Ford staggered over to Stanley’s bed and sank down on it, closing his eyes and biting down hard on his lower lip.

_ It’s okay...they’re just pictures...just very realistic, horrifying pictures…calm down... _

He still felt like he was about to pass out, so finally he just lay down on his back, clamping a hand over his nose and mouth in a trick he’d learned from reading about panic attacks, trying to slow down his breathing and take in a little less oxygen.

When his chest stopped feeling quite so tight, he opened his eyes again.

But Ford made no attempt to get up for the moment; he just lay there, staring up at the blank white ceiling so he wouldn’t have to see...anything else in the room, and tried to come up with an intelligent deduction about where Stanley might have gone.

_ Something that might help with the trap… _

_ Okay, think like Stan. What would he think was a good solution to my problem? _

But that was the problem (or, one of the problems): he wasn’t that good at thinking like Stan anymore.

Granted, he’d been getting gradually better at it ever since his brother came back into his life and they had patched up that whole stupid misunderstanding, and he’d started getting to know him all over again. But Stan had changed after five years living on the streets; he was a little more closed off than he remembered, even sneakier than before, and a lot better at keeping his emotions under his hat. And Ford sometimes had even more trouble reading this Stanley than he used to.

If he were better at it, maybe he would have realized... _ this _ , a lot sooner.

With a little chill, Ford wondered if Stan had fallen back into other bad habits without him noticing it; when was the last time he’d gotten a good look at his arms…?

No, no, he was sure there were no fresh scars there.

_ But maybe he knew I might see, and started doing it on his legs? I’ve heard about people doing that- _

_ That’s not important right now! _

_...I mean, that  _ is _ important, if he’s doing that. Which you don’t know for certain that he is. But either way, you won’t find out by just lying here worrying about it, you’ll find out when you go find him and make sure he’s safe. _

_...Dan is going to give both of us hell for this. _

But Ford knew he wasn’t going to be able to stay here and relax while his brother was so far away, so what other choice did he have?

Finally he got up, keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway so he wouldn’t have to see...anything else, and left, closing the door behind him.

Ford headed down stairs, still thinking about where his brother might have gone to-and saw his journal lying open on the coffee table.

And when he saw the page it was open to, he had to admit, Stanley was very clever to have come up with such a simple solution to his problem.

...He was still going to kill him when he found him.

* * *

Ford slid on some shoes and grabbed a mini dreamcatcher and his crossbow off the wall, not even bothering to change out of his pajamas before he was writing a quick note in case Dan came to check on them ( _ Stan went off into the woods and I had to go find him. Please don’t kill us. _ ), before he was rushing out to one of the golf carts and taking off into the woods.

He ignored all the rules about the speed limit, not to mention general golf cart safety, as he raced between trees and up and down the trail of grass and down the side of the hill. His eyes scanned back and forth for any sign of his brother, for any sign of something weird that might try to attack him, for a giant caterpillar-

A giant caterpillar?!

He barely forced the cart to stop in time, and it was only by the purest luck that it didn’t tip over. The caterpillar took no notice of him, as it turned to start munching on a fresh tree. There were a number of mostly-chewed stumps standing in a row at its feet, indicating that it had been at its meal for a while now.

Warily Ford steered the cart around it, and drove into a clearing that appeared to have random croppings of very unusual-looking crystals that emitted colorful light patterns.

For once, he wasn’t interested at all in what kind of contribution they could make to his studies of Gravity Falls weirdness. He turned off the motor and called out, in a voice that he would have hated to admit was kind of plaintive, “Stanley?!”

No answer.

His heart lurched anxiously.

And then, right by the side of the cart, a timid voice said,  _ “He’s not here anymore.” _

“What the-!” Ford jerked around as best he could...and saw a tiny yellow unicorn standing by one of the front wheels.

No, I don’t mean like the size of just a very small horse. I mean like she was about the size of a rabbit, and staring up at him timidly through her pink bangs.

_ “Oh, uh, sorry. Hold on a moment.” _ And she galloped over to the side of the crystal that was creating blue light, and jumped into it.

Despite his anxiety, Ford’s eyes widened when she began to grow...and grow...and grow, until she was back to what he assumed was her normal size. She trotted back over to the cart.

_ “Sorry; sometimes I like to change size. It makes it easier to talk to some of my animal friends.” _ She giggled, and flipped her mane back a little.

Ford vaguely thought he remembered her from the crowd of other unicorns who came to get haircuts from Stan. He decided that wasn’t important right now.

“Stanley was here?”

The yellow unicorn nodded.  _ “The tiny deer said he was here for a little bit, before he left. I saw him when I was on my way here, heading…” _ she lifted her dainty cloven hoof, and pointed,  _ “that way.” _

The words had barely registered in Ford’s ears before he was turning the cart back on and taking off.

_ “I hope you find him!” _ the unicorn called.

_ Nothing but trees… _

_ Trees… _

_ Trees… _

_ Bushes… _

_ Trees… _

Ford was beginning to think that he should have tried out that tracking spell he’d learned from some fairies a few months ago, when he saw what was up ahead, and for the second time that day risked crashing the cart with the speed he jerked to a stop.

_ No. _

_ No way would Stanley go back  _ there _ of his own free will. The dumb unicorn has to have made a mistake, or just been lying. _

_...But where else could he possibly be? _

Ford swallowed back a lump in his throat, and after a moment his foot pressed down on the gas pedal-more as a reflex than through any conscious desire on his part, but-

But as he got close, driving into the clearing and ignoring the way his pulse had started racing in his neck, he could see a familiar figure collapsed in the doorway of the hellish building (ironic, really, considering what it used to be), a figure who looked frighteningly limp and lifeless and  _ oh holy Moses please don’t be- _

“Stanley!”

He barely had time to consider that it could be just an illusion or some kind of cryptid that specialized in mimicry and that he might be diving into a trap before he’d already grabbed Stan’s shoulder and turned him so he could see his face.

He looked like Stan; smelled like him too, in a way that most monsters were unable to replicate. His shoulder felt warm under his hand, and kind of sweaty in the spot where the strap from the backpack lying next to him must have been resting as he made this journey.

...And he was hyperventilating, and his eyes were mostly pupils, and Ford could see the vein throbbing in his neck, so he was in the middle of a panic attack and needed to be calmed down NOW.

“Stanley? Can you hear me?”

He blinked, focusing on Ford-and his breathing hitched even faster, sounding like his heart was about to explode if he didn’t take slower breaths.

“N-n-you g-guh-”

“Stanley, I know you’re feeling very afraid right now-” brilliant understatement of the year- “but it’s okay. You’re okay, I’m okay, we’re both okay.” For obvious reasons, the older twin wasn’t feeling like his usual semi-eloquent self. “I need you to sit up straighter and try to follow my breathing, all right?” Ford searched frantically for more words. “Like you helped me to dow-that one time, remember? Or at least you tried to, but at the time I was more than a little out of it and didn’t really hear you all that well because I was still having those night-”

_ Stop talking you idiot you’re not helping _ .

Surprisingly, though, Stan had started smiling a little, genuine amusement in his bloodshot brown eyes as he stared at him, so maybe he was doing something right after all? And his twin’s breathing had started to slow, still hitching in places but sounding less like he’d just finished running a marathon, and even though he was still pale and sweaty and shaky, it looked like the worst of it was over.

When his breath had returned to some semblance of normality, Stan fumbled into one of the pockets of his pack, pulling out a few small crystals.

“I-found a way to get your hoops.” He smiled weakly.

Ford snorted, and just pulled Stan in against his chest, rubbing his back when he felt him trembling.

He didn’t want to ask, but he did anyway: “Then why are you here?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Stan muttered, “Wanted ta prove that I wasn’t scared ta come back here.”

“...Good job.”

“Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, I had them finally hug.  
> You guys happy now?
> 
> Also, hooray, Ford's own socially awkward dorkiness saves Stan from a panic attack! It does have a useful purpose after all!  
> "Hey!"  
> :P


	7. Stan an' Dan go han' to han'

Stan could finally breathe.

Granted, he was currently pressed against Ford’s shirt, letting him know that his brother was in serious need of a shower, so it wasn’t his most pleasant time spent breathing air ever, but it was good enough for who it was for.

And this was...this was nice.

Neither of them were natural huggers; it wasn’t that they didn’t _like_ hugs, but they weren’t big on initiating them either, except with each other, and even then they had to be special circumstances. Such as, apparently, this.

It had been a while since they had done so-the last time had been _down there_ -and Stan was actually surprised by how _nice_ it felt.

After a few minutes Ford cleared his throat.

“What were you thinking, you knucklehead?” One of his hands rose up and knocked on the back of Stan’s skull a few times. “You nearly gave me a heart attack by sneaking off like that.”

“Sorry. I wanted ta surprise you, and I worried if I told ya what I was gonna do you’d try ta stop me or somethin’.”

He felt Ford let out an annoyed huff against his hair. “Are you kidding? I would have come _with_ you. I’ve wanted to study that part of the forest for quite a while, and the trip would have been a nice chance to get out of the house. And I might have been able to stop you from coming here and having a panic attack while I was at it.”

Stan laughed, burrowing against Ford’s shoulder a little. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Thank you, though. That was very helpful.”

“I try.”

Stan finally felt calm enough to sit up, quickly rubbing his face on his sleeve because some dust or something must have gotten into his eyes.

Ford, he noticed, was looking at him with a very solemn expression.

That was never a good sign.

“Stanley, when we get home...we need to talk.”

That was an even worse sign.

“...About?” Stan asked, feeling his stomach clench up a little.

“About lots of things. Such as what’s in your room.”

The lightheadedness came back with a vengeance, and he would have actually smashed into the other side of the doorway behind him if Ford’s hands hadn’t grabbed his arms, keeping him upright and steady.

“Easy! Easy.” Ford gave his arms a gentle squeeze.

“...You kinda weren’t supposed ta see that,” Stan muttered as he hunched in on himself and waited for the black spots to fade.

“I didn’t mean to. But your door wasn’t shut all the way, and-it was an accident.”

The irony of his using that phrase was not lost on either of them.

Stan couldn’t look his brother in the face anymore; he stared at his shoulder, finally registering that it was his pajama shirt (he’d seriously come looking for Stan in his pajamas? What a dork) amidst the haze of what he realized was humiliation.

“It-it was just-”

Before he could come up with an answer, the ground started to shake.

And not ten seconds later, three hulking shapes burst out of the forest, and came thundering towards them.

“FOUND THEM!” the manotaur furthest in front bellowed. He lurched to a halt right in front of the boys, and spun around to gloat at his comrades. “Pay up, losers!”

The other manotaurs groaned. Then one of them dropped and started doing push-ups, and another came up and stood still with his arms at his sides, allowing the apparent winner to knock him flat with a hard punch that had Stan cringing.

The manotaur grinned proudly, and turned back to them.

“Our chief sent us to find you and bring you back, dead or alive!”

“ _Preferably_ alive!” the one doing push-ups called breathlessly.

_So he can kill us himself, I bet,_ Stan thought with a sinking feeling.

Then he was letting out a startled “Oof!” as the manotaur grabbed him and Ford up, tucking one of them under each of his arms.

“Let’s go, guys!”

The one he’d punched sat up with a groan, spitting out a tooth, and the one doing push-ups leaped to his feet, clearly trying to regain his balance without being conspicuous about it.

“Hey, hey! Wait a minute-what’s your name?” Stan tugged a hunk of the manotaur’s chest hair (fur?).

“Bulbataur!” he said proudly, as he started to jog towards the edge of the clearing.

“Bulbataur, we gotta drive the cart back home! Put us down!”

* * *

They ended up driving the cart, with Bulbataur making himself at home in the back and the other two flanking them, each holding on to a side to make sure they couldn’t drive away.

“...Should we be worried about the fact that Dan basically has his own organized military now?” Stan whispered to Ford.

“Only if he starts to go mad with power,” Ford whispered back.

Stan glanced around at their three handlers. “I think that mighta already happened.”

Ford snorted.

When they drove into view of the house, Dan was standing on the porch. Judging by the axe in his hand and the vein throbbing in his forehead...he was not pleased.

Matilda was leaning on the railing, looking less than pleased herself. Based on her posture, Stan wondered if they’d been arguing with each other before the little group showed up.

As the cart pulled to a halt, the manotaurs all knelt.

“We have recovered your companions, sir! As you suspected, they were at that creepy building where the pain-eaters used to live! We saw no sign of others, sir!”

“Thanks. Here ya go. Dismissed.” Dan pulled three packets of jerky out of his pocket, tossing them to the manotaurs, who immediately began fighting over them as they headed back into the trees.

Stan and Ford gulped.

Unlike Pa, Dan wasted no time before he started ranting at them.

“When I agreed that I couldn’t exactly keep you here forever, that did NOT mean that the very next day you could just go running off into the forest BY YOURSELVES and GO BACK TO THAT PLACE WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE!!”

“Dan, it was for-”

“DO I LOOK LIKE I’M DONE?!”

Ford shut his mouth.

Stan, however, suddenly bristled, and climbed out of the cart.

“Last I checked, you weren’t our dad!” _Thank all that is holy._ “We don’t need ta check in with you every time we do something, and besides, we came back in one piece!”

The lumberjack growled, and leaped off the porch, landing right in front of him. It gave Stan a frightening reminder of just how much taller he was.

“ _This_ time you came back! Did you forget that last time I had ta come and rescue your butts cuz you were too stupid ta handle yourselves?”

Stan knew he was right; his timing for going off exploring had been terrible, and he was probably just worried about them and that was why he was so mad right now. But suddenly, all he could hear was, _You did_ what _, you knucklehead?!_

He tried to go past Dan. “Whatever.”

A meaty hand caught him in the chest, shoving him back so hard he nearly fell on his back in the dirt. “You’re staying here-”

“Why, so you can keep tellin’ me how much I screwed up?! I get it, okay?! I freaked everyone out by goin’ off by myself, and I’m a total disappointment!”

Ford tried to say something, probably in an attempt to de-escalate the situation; neither of them paid any attention.

Stan tried to shove Dan out of his way (which was about as effective as trying to shove a brick wall).

Dan shoved him back, harder.

Stan snarled, his blood pressure rising, and then, without even thinking about what he was doing, smashed his fist into Dan’s jaw.

He may not have had Dan’s size and immense physical strength, but Stan did have lots of experience fighting, and in particular with fighting dirty. This meant he was able to anticipate, and then dodge, the wild haymaker that Dan swung at him, ducking under his arm and hitting him in the ribs, actually getting in a couple of strikes before Dan grabbed him by the shirtfront, hoisting him into the air, and even as he did Stan was grabbing his ears, ready to have the jerk’s nose meet his forehead-

A high, piercing screech split the air.

Both of them froze, and turned towards the noise. Matilda came marching down the steps, spitting out the whistle that was in her mouth.

“Daniel, go around to the back and cool off! NOW!”

Dan scowled, but he dropped Stan, who barely managed to keep his balance, and then stomped around towards the back of the house. After a second, they heard the sound of wood being smashed into splinters, and one of the trees on that side toppled over.

* * *

“...Why do you have a whistle?” was the first thing out of Ford’s mouth.

“When my dad was still employed, he was the coach for the high school lacrosse team.” Matilda tucked it back under her shirt. “And now I have this in case I get lost in the woods.” She suddenly sighed, pushing back her bangs. “Guys...do you know why Dan is being so overprotective right now?”

“Because he thinks we’re too stupid ta learn from our mistakes,” Stan grumbled, straightening his rumpled shirt and glowering.

She gave him a scolding glare, and then, relaxing her eyebrows, “He never told you about his brothers, did he?”

Stan gave Ford a confused look; he looked equally perplexed. “...We know he’s got two of ‘em.”

“He used to have more.”

_That_ was definitely a wake-up call they hadn’t been expecting.

“Two older ones, to be precise.” Matilda leaned against the golf cart, sticking her thumbs in her belt loops.

“...What happened to them?” Ford asked, sounding more hesitant than he usually was when he wanted to know something big.

“They both went to ‘Nam. Never came home.”

Stan’s breath hitched.

He’d been aware of the war’s existence while he was homeless. At one point he’d even considered joining up-not because he had any interest in patriotism or cared if people on the other side of the globe were communists or not, but because they fed you in the army. Ultimately, though, he’d decided it wasn’t worth having to learn how to take orders (and, you know, kill people and stuff), and went west to dodge the draft.

He hadn’t given much thought about what could happen to the people who actually went there.

“I think Dan thinks,” Matilda said, “that if he can protect you two...it’ll make up somehow for his not being there to protect them.” She looked up at them. “They weren’t a lot like you-honestly they were even bigger meatheads than you are-but I’m pretty sure you still remind him of them sometimes. I’m not saying he’s handling this right...I just want you to understand where he’s coming from.”

At the back of the house, another tree crashed to the earth-and even though they couldn’t see it, it definitely made a sound.

Stan sighed guiltily. “Guess we needa go have a heart-ta-heart, huh?”

Ford looked equally resigned. “It would appear so.”

“Oh, get going, you big babies.” Matilda gave them both a light shove in the back, sending them trudging towards the sounds of angry chopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I just gave Dan a tragic backstory!


	8. An accord is reached

Normally, approaching an angry, axe-wielding man was what Ford would view as an extremely unwise decision.

But in this situation, he didn’t think Dan would actually  _ hurt _ them.

Just in case, though, he pulled Stan back before he could get too close.

“Let’s...give him a chance to cool down a little longer.”

At that moment, Dan punched a log, splitting it neatly down the middle in a way that should have completely defied the laws of physics.

Stan gulped. “Good plan.”

They stood by the side of the house and watched the lumberjack as he continued turning the tree into kindling, sometimes using his axe and sometimes just using his bare hands.   
  


It took a few minutes before he visibly calmed down, pulling some tweezers out of his jeans pocket and starting to remove the splinters from his fingers.

Ford coughed, just loud enough to be audible.

Dan glanced at them, and sighed.

“She told you, didn’t she.”

“Yeah.” When he just turned his head and continued getting the splinters out, Ford decided it was safe to come a little closer. Stan moved in tandem with him.

“If you got any mushy sentiments, you can keep ‘em,” Dan growled. “For  _ weeks _ after we got the news I had ta hear ‘em from everyone in town, includin’ people who up until that point hadn’t given our family the time o’ day. I don’t need your pity.”

Ford recognized his posture, and tone of voice. They were the same ones Stan had every time he was in pain and too proud to admit it.

He chewed his lip, wondering how to approach this. Because usually with Stan, the best way to deal with those moments seemed to vary depending on the situation, whether to talk about the issue anyway or just let it go for now or-

Stan walked right up to Dan and asked, “Ya need help with that?” He indicated the splinters.

Dan looked like he was seconds away from snarling out something defensive...but Stan just gave him a steady look, until at last he sighed, and handed over the tweezers.

“C’mon.” Stan gestured towards the house. “It’ll be easier ta do this inside.”

* * *

Ford helped out, retrieving his own tweezers and working on one hand, while Stan took the other. Matilda, having seen what they were doing, got some bandages and disinfectant ready when she saw that some of the splinters had actually drawn blood, and gave her boyfriend a scolding glare when he started to protest that he didn’t need them.

While he was working out a particularly big sliver of wood, Stan suddenly said, “I know what it’s like ta lose your brother.”

“No you don’t,” Dan growled.

He gave a conceding nod. “Okay, I don’t know what it’s like ta lose him  _ permanently _ , but I do know what it’s like ta lose him.” His eyes remained fixed on Dan’s hand. “There’s nothin’ worse.”

Dan gave a small nod of acknowledgment, accompanied by a pained grunt as the splinter was finally removed.

Stan dropped the sliver onto the tabletop (a brand new one, made of solid oak), and started on a new spot. “And if ya get another chance at havin’ him back, or at least someone like him, you’ll do anything ta make sure it never happens again.”

Ford grimaced, and had to force himself to focus on his own task.

“I’m sorry we scared ya,” Stan said softly. “I was gettin’ something for Ford, and then I went ta the church to try an’ stop bein’ afraid of it.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

“...Not great. But I did find some magic crystals that can make things bigger or smaller.”

Dan snorted, and then gave Ford a perplexed look. “Why do you want those?”

Ford felt his stomach twist a little. “That’s...something else we should talk to you about.”

He told Dan all about his plan to trap the black doves, and what he needed to put it together.

Of course, the lumberjack (and Matilda, he noticed) looked less than thrilled at the idea, so he added quickly, “We’re going to have plenty of warm milk on hand in case this goes pear-shaped. But if you really want to protect us, you should help us with it. That way you’ll be there to make sure they can’t hurt us again.”

Dan frowned, mulling the idea over. As the last splinters were removed, and the twins and Matilda started cleaning and bandaging his injuries, he looked across the table at his girlfriend.

“Whaddya think, Matt?”

She pursed her lips. “How hard were these things to deal with when you fought them?”

He waved his hand, forgetting that Stan was trying to finish fixing it up until he grabbed it again. “Eh. I saw ‘em comin’, so I was able ta deal with ‘em pretty quickly. But there’s always a chance that I just got lucky. We’d needa be extra careful.”

“Hmm.” She wrapped both her hands around the one she was working on; even though they were so different in size, somehow it was a perfect fit. “Being careful’s not exactly any of our strong points...but I’m game if you are.”

He nodded, and finally looked back at Ford.

“Okay. We’ll help you two dorks with your little project. But I reserve the right ta end things if this doesn’t work.”

Ford took his other, newly bandaged hand, shook firmly. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to give Matilda and Dan kind of an Izumi-and-Sig dynamic, for those of you familiar with Full Metal Alchemist.


	9. Some people suffer for their art; Stan does art for his suffering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never welded in my life. So my knowledge about how to do so is sadly limited.
> 
> Hopefully you all are having a good Mother's Day, whether or not you are or have mothers.

The trap was set up in the basement, of course.

They got two spare hoops from the dreamcatcher-making supplies Dan kept at hand, and Stan pulled out his new size crystals.

“So, how do we want to do this?” Dan asked, looking at the crystals with a critical eye.

“Our best option would probably be attaching it to a flashlight somehow,” Ford mused. Then his eyes brightened. “Or, actually, maybe we could cut one and use it to make a lens, and mechanize it so it can switch sides depending on if you want to make something bigger or smaller-”

“Focus on what we wanna do with it right now, genius,” Stan reminded him.

Ford flushed. “Oh. Right.” He picked up one of the crystals, squinting at it, and then grabbed a flashlight from the basement closet (which held a bunch of emergency supplies in case they ever needed to be stuck down here for an extended length of time). Holding the crystal with the very tips of his fingers in front of the light, he flipped it on, pointing it. A beam of pink light shot out.

He switched sides, and the light turned blue.

“This will do for now.”

But as he went over to the hoops and began making them grow, Stan could tell he was already coming up with more creative, efficient ways to harness the crystal’s power.

Once the hoops were big enough, the problem became figuring out how to secure them together.

“We could just make one of them just small enough to fit inside the other sideways, and then tie the cross-sections very tightly?” Matilda suggested.

“That might not be secure enough, though,” Ford said, adjusting his glasses. “We don't want to risk the black doves escaping. The best way would probably be to break part of the hoops, and then weld them together...ugh, why have I never thought to keep welding equipment?!”

“...Probably because you’ve never welded anything in your life,” Stan said dryly.

“That’s no excuse!”

Stan just rolled his eyes at his dork twin (who had at least changed out of his pajamas before going down to the basement).

“I have a blowtorch and some other equipment,” Dan suggested. “I’d haveta drive home and get it, though.”

“That’s okay, we aren’t going anywhere.” Ford sat down at his desk.

Dan narrowed his eyes at them. “For your sakes, you’d better not. I don’t wanna haveta deal with that twice in one day.”

And the lumberjack lumbered upstairs.

* * *

For a while the remainder of the little group sat in more or less silence. Ford checked and rechecked his calculations and drawings; Matilda examined the shelves that were filled with supernatural items, from hippogriffin talon clippings to what Ford thought might be a dinosaur tooth; Stan grabbed a rubber ball and tried to see how many times he could make it bounce off the floor and wall before it landed back in his hand.

He’d just gotten it to the point where it could bounce once on the floor, hit the wall, and nearly go as high as the ceiling in that part of the room before it returned to his hand, when Ford said, “Stanley, we should talk about your drawings.”

Stan nearly lost the ball, and had to fumble to catch it. “Uh, what about ‘em?”

“I get that you’re using them as a coping mechanism, but...there’s quite a lot of them.”

Stan shrugged irritably. “There’s a lot I gotta cope with.” He threw the ball a little harder than he’d meant to, and barely dodged in time to avoid getting hit in the face with it when it ricocheted back. He went running after it, and thankfully managed to catch it before it could hit one of the shelves.

“What drawings?” Matilda asked.

Stan jumped, reminded that there was another person in the room with them. “Uh-just some...stuff I did. About when we were pain-eater food.”

“...Can I see?”

Stan stared at her until she blushed.

“Sorry, that-that was rude of me.”

“...Nah, it’s fine.”

It wasn’t, and he had no idea why she’d be interested, but somehow Stan found himself heading upstairs and snatching up a few samples anyway.

Ford grimaced when the pictures were spread out across one of the tables, and Stan gave his shoulder a quick squeeze of reassurance.

“...I keep havin’ nightmares and stuff, and doin’ this kinda helps. I keep meanin’ ta burn ‘em or somethin’, but somehow I just leave ‘em all over my room instead.”

Matilda’s reaction, unexpectedly, was to say, “Wow, these are  _ good _ .”

She looked up at them and blushed again. “I mean-they’re horrifying, especially to the both of you probably, but still-you can feel the emotion that went into making them. You’re really talented, Stan.”

His jaw dropped.

He couldn’t help it; it was the first time he could remember anyone  _ ever _ saying that about him instead of Ford.

“...If you want, I have some extra charcoal I could lend you, and some books about drawing with it,” Matilda suggested. “Art’s kinda one of my passions, so I get way excited when I see someone else trying it.”

“...Sure. Thanks.” Stan was still feeling a little dazed over being called talented.

“There’s a great art school in Portland that I wanna go to, actually,” Matilda said, picking up one of the drawings and rubbing a corner absentmindedly with her thumb. “The problem is being able to afford it-and if my parents’ll let me go.” She let out a laugh that to Stan’s ears sounded like it was trying to be happy when it wasn’t.

_ Great. Someone else with a dream college. How did I end up the only person in the world who thinks a secondary education is overrated? _

Stan just gathered his pictures back up, and, at the sound of heavy feet coming down the stairs, quickly shoved them into a desk drawer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't knock it till you try it, Stan.  
> If nothing else, it can help you to get a job that is unlikely to include being forced to make shady deals with people who'll kill you if they go sour.


	10. The prisoners become the wardens

Construction of the trap lasted well into the night; multiple contingency plans were established, and all the conditions had to be checked and re-checked several times before Ford was satisfied. In the end, though, the dreamcatcher the black doves were trapped in was set up on a small platform in the middle of the joining place at the bottom of a sphere, made by two giant metal hoops being joined together crossways, and then braided unicorn hair being woven along the outside in the same kind of pattern as a normal dreamcatcher, and decorated here and there with beads and feathers. The whole thing was suspended a few inches off the ground by a heavy chain dangling from a hook attached to the ceiling, and three pans filled with warm milk were waiting within arm’s reach.

Ford looked at his companions. “Ready?”

Dan grimaced. “Nope. Let’s do it anyway.”

Quickly Ford reached inside through one of the holes, used the tip of Stan’s switchblade to break one of the threads of the smaller dreamcatcher, and pulled his arm free as quickly as he could.

A moment later he realized one safety precaution they had not considered when putting together this trap, but he now saw would have been useful: earmuffs.

He realized this when three large coils of smoke materialized inside the trap, accompanied by a chorus of outrage, agonized, sound barrier-defying hissing screeches.

Ford lurched back, feeling his blood pounding in his ears and his chest tightening in panic-but he forced himself to look steadily at the prison, and take deep breaths.

_ You’re safe. They cannot get you. You’re the one who’s in charge now. _

He glanced at Stanley, and saw that his brother was sitting at the desk; he was pale, but he looked back at Ford and gave him a shaky thumbs-up.

Dan was wearing his most protective glare, and Matilda was covering her ears, but also looking a little intrigued as she watched the creatures.

They could handle this.

The black doves threw themselves at the walls of their prison, but whenever they got too close the threads glowed with a golden light, and they had to pull back with wails of anguish. Eventually, their cries began to form coherent words.

_ “Trapped! Traaaaaapped! Sssssso long sssssspent ssssssuffering in sssssssilenccccce, only to be releassssssed into new captivity!!!!” _

_ “Ssssssso much sssssssuffering!” _ Another wailed, looping the loop around the first.  _ “An endlesssss torment of blind numbnessssss!!!!!” _

_ “Trapped forever!!!!” _ cried the third.  _ “We are lossssst!” _

Their voices did wonders for Ford’s heart rate, but with an effort he took more deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

And then, the black doves seemed to sense that he was there; in a heartbeat they were all facing in his direction, despite not having any faces to speak of.

_ “YOU.” _

* * *

Despite the word not possessing any sibilants whatsoever, it came out as an outraged hiss, which Ford thought was quite an impressive feat even for these creatures. And it was spoken with a level of venomous hatred and greed that sent chills up and down his spine, and nearly made him lose the level of control he’d just reestablished.

He folded his arms to prevent them from trembling, and said, “Nice to see you too, you disgusting leeches.”

The black doves responded with some soft hissing which could have been either a kind of snarling or laughter; it was kind of hard to tell.

_ “Sssssso, Ssssssstanford Pinesssss,” _ one of them whispered, waving back and forth like a sea anemone,  _ “You learned our weaknesssss, and usssssed that clever little mind to build a trap for usssssss. What now? Will you presssssent ussssss to the sssssscientific community for that fortune and fame you crave ssssso muccccchhhh?” _

“If you provide anything of sufficient interest to anyone besides serving as just a group of bogeymen, perhaps.” Ford circled the prison, studying them intently and making sure the trap was secure. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Dan was resting his hand on one of the pans of warm milk.

A series of angry hisses assaulted his ears.

_ “And there are your friendssssss, too,” _ another dove purred, going as close to the wall of the prison as it could. It gasped in delight.  _ “Ssssssstanley! Don’t think we’ve forgotten you, it’ssssss sssssso nicccccce to sssssssee you again! Even if it’ssssss a torment to usssss to sssssssee you and not be able to tassssssste you!” _

“...My heart  _ bleeds _ for you,” Stan growled, in his least impressed tone of voice.

_ “Oh, but it ssssshhhhould,” _ another crooned, curling around its companions.  _ “You don’t know how  _ maddening _ it issssss, to sssssssee your lovely, lovely pain jusssssst hovering in front of usssssss and be sssssso out of reaccccchhh! All thosssssse sssssssleeplessssssss nightssssss-” _

_ “Fighting in dark alleysssssss where it’ssssssss you or them-” _ the third one moaned.

And then, before Ford’s eyes, pictures began to form in the center of the webbing, fading in and out of sight; images not of Stanley, but of what he was guessing were events that were occurring from Stanley’s point of view; men with knives and guns and dark looks in their eyes, angry mobs carrying pitchforks, the cold gray wall of a prison cell, a woman with a broken bottle in one hand, the other curled back in a fist.

_ “The fear-” _

_ “The raggggge-” _

_ “The ssssssself-loathing-” _

_ “The conssssssstant, crusssssshhhhhhing lonelinessssss-” _

“Yeah, we get it, my life’s been one big tragedy. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Stan’s expression was a mask of indifferent annoyance, as he turned his chair and began bouncing the rubber ball again. Ford’s heart ached for him anyway.

_ “And now that we’re looking for it, we can ssssssensssssse more to your pain than meetssssss the eye, Sssssssstanford,” _ a dove who had moved as close to him as it could reach hissed, startling him and drawing his attention back to the trap.

_ “You’d never think, looking at you, there’d be sssssso many feelingssssss of inadequaccccccy.” _ The spot in the web conjured up an image of Ford’s hands.  _ “Thinking the only way people will ever ressssspect you issssss with your brainsssss…” _

_ “Sssssssecretly wondering at timessssss if your brother sssssssstill hatesssssss you for what he ssssssssuffered due to your wrath-” _

A much younger Stan hit the sidewalk, looking both bewildered and devastated as a duffel bag was hurled into his lap.

_ “Worrying that one day, ssssssome other sssssssmarter being will appear and trick you and flatter you into doing itssssss dirty work…” _

And a very familiar yellow triangle in a stupid black top hat, which would have been more comical had Ford not known his true nature, appeared, raising his tiny black arms and cackling gleefully.

Despite his resolve not to show fear in front of these monsters, Ford’s stomach twisted and he had to swallow down the bile in his throat.

_ “Not to mention your friendssssss…” _

_ “Yessssss, we haven’t gotten to tassssssste them yet, but we can ssssssee their pain…” _

The room was suddenly filled with the sounds of guns and helicopters, and Ford thought he could actually smell something like a grotesque combination of fire and blood (which didn’t do his already churning stomach any favors). A brief image of two tombstones appeared, then faded away to be replaced by the faces of a man, a woman and a little girl; he didn’t get that good of a look at them before they disappeared.

_ “It’ssssss all ssssssspread out before ussssss-” _

_ “Like the world’ssssssss mossssst delectable banquet-” _

_ “And we can’t get at any of it!” _ the black doves lamented, one after the other before joining in chorus at the end.

Ford couldn’t find it in himself to feel any sympathy.

“And you’re not going to get any of it, as long as I have anything to say about it.” He stepped back, putting his hands on his hips. “So you might as well get comfortable; you’re going to be here for a long, long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dreamcatchers are used to trap nightmares, after all. It just made sense for the black doves to be able to show them off.


	11. Laughter isn't always the best medicine, but it doesn't always hurt either

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice, sweet moment with the boys.

Ford settled down in a chair in front of the trap, where he began scribbling down observations and thoughts in his journal. While he did that, Stan and the others headed upstairs.

“Can I trust you dorks not ta let those things out if I take Matilda home and then go hit the hay?” Dan asked, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “I got work in the morning.”

“Believe it or not, we’re not completely incompetent,” Stan groused back.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I’ll bring over the stuff tomorrow,” Matilda promised with a smile as she and Dan reached the front door.

Dan looked down with a raised eyebrow. “What stuff?”

“Just some art stuff,” she was saying as Stan shut the door and hurried back to the basement to check on Ford.

His brother was still sitting and writing when he came into view, only pausing to look up at the trap for a moment before going back to writing. The black doves were hissing something Stan couldn’t make out, probably threats, or flaunting more of their knowledge about everyone else’s pain in an attempt to be more intimidating or whatever. Even though he told himself they were less scary now that they were in a cage, he didn’t feel like going any closer to them right now; he just sat down on one of the steps and waited for Ford to finish up.

* * *

Stan’s eyes snapped open again with a small gasp when he felt the step under his feet vibrate after being lightly kicked.

“Is this going to be a recurring thing?” Ford asked with a touch of amusement.

Stan sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I guess,” he muttered, voice still foggy with sleep. He was pleased that even with the pain-eaters twenty feet away, he couldn’t remember having any nightmares.

“You done for the night?”

“I think so. So far they aren’t interested in giving me much information besides taunting and threatening, but I still gleaned a few things from their words.” Ford led the way to the basement door. “For one thing, they’re astonishingly old. They mentioned being in existence since at least the time of Julius Caesar, and being there that day in the Senate!” Then his ebullience abruptly faded. “...Unless of course they were just making that up to make themselves sound more impressive.”

“It does sound like that kinda bragging,” Stan admitted, pushing the door closed behind them with his foot. He had to admit, though, he was impressed with Ford for coming to that realization on his own. Looked like he’d learned something from their encounter with Bill after all.

Ford’s shoulders sagged. “I really am a sucker.”

“Nah.” Stan reached over and ruffled his hair playfully. “You just gotta remember that they got no reason ta tell us the truth about anything.”

“And the only thing we could offer them as incentive is...unthinkable.”

“Yeah.”

This train of thought led Stan to something that was really unpleasant to bring up, but that he suddenly realized was kind of important.

“Sixer?”

“Hmm?” Ford glanced over his shoulder at him as they headed by unspoken agreement to the kitchen to get some late-night food.

“What’re we gonna do with ‘em when you’re done studying them?”

His hand froze halfway to a cupboard, and slowly dropped. “...I haven’t really thought about that yet,” he admitted.

“Cuz if we let ‘em go, even if we protect the house they’ll go after someone else.” Stan felt oddly proud of himself; had he still been living on the streets he might have thought, _Great; better them than me_ , and just made plans to cross the first state line he could get to. “The only options I can see are ta either put ‘em back in another dreamcatcher, or milk ‘em.”

Ford blinked. Stan went over that phrase in his head-and then they both cracked up into giggles.

Their amusement might have been a little overly exhausted and somewhat hysterical, but Stan didn’t care. It was the first time in weeks that he could remember having a long, full laugh; it felt...surprisingly good.

“Oh man,” he sighed at last, leaning on the counter and wiping his eyes, “that came out soundin’ so much weirder than I thought it would.”

Ford had to clean his glasses on his shirt, still giggling. “Now I’ve got this mental image of them having tiny black udders.”

“Ugh, don’t put that in my head!” Stan groaned. Too late; it was already there, and now that he’d seen it he couldn’t unsee it. Seeing his disgust just made Ford giggle harder, so of course Stan couldn’t help cracking up again.

Eventually they calmed down enough to grab a box of graham crackers and a glass of milk each, and head upstairs.

Just outside his door, Stan paused.

“Stanford.”

Ford turned to him. “Hmm?”

“...You know what they said’s not true, right?”

“Which thing?”

Stan tucked the box of crackers under his arm so he could rub the back of his neck awkwardly. “I...I don’t hate you. There were a couple times I thought I did, but mostly I just figured that you hated me, and if ya did I deserved it. So. The pain-eaters can suck it.”

Ford gave him a look that was an odd mixture of amusement and sadness. “I would remind you again that you _didn’t_ deserve it, but you know that already. So I’m just going to say that I told myself I hated you many times...but mostly I just felt confused and hurt about what had happened, and never took the time to process it like I should have. I never fully succeeded in hating you.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Ford looked embarrassed. “Sorry, that sounded better before I said it.”

Stan grinned at him. “I getcha, nerd. Night.” He opened the door to his room.

“Stanley?”

He looked back at Ford, who hesitated before saying, “Matilda’s right. Your pictures are horrifying...but that’s because they’re also very well drawn.”

Stan suddenly found himself feeling very interested in his glass. He ducked his head down, giving the milk as intense a stare as if it were a bank note he was forging.

Ford tilted his head. “Are you...blushing?”

“No!” Stan turned to retreat into his room.

“You _are_!” Ford let out a shocked laugh and stepped towards him. “Sweet heavens above, Stanley, I need to start giving you compliments more often if it’s giving you this strong of a reaction, because clearly you don’t hear enough of them!”

“Shut up, you’re making it weird!” Stan slammed the door.

He could hear Ford laughing in the hallway, before he called, “Good night, Stanley!”

“Yeah, whatever,” he growled, trying to wipe the grin off his face.

* * *

Down in the basement, the black doves swirled around their golden prison, searching for some way to escape. And they looked at the bottom of the trap, where the small metal plate had been left that held the broken dreamcatcher on it, and began to make plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...With a dark, foreshadowing moment at the end.  
> Mwa-ha-ha-ha.
> 
> ...At least we can still giggle about the tiny black udders, right?


	12. This is why everyone hates moral philosophy professors

In the morning, Ford hurried downstairs to make sure the trap was still securely sealed.

It was, and all the black doves could do was hiss dire threats at him as he came close; he ignored them as best he could, and lost himself in thought.

Truth be told, he _was_ a little concerned about what they were going to eventually do with the black doves when he was done trying to study them. Because Stan was right, they couldn’t just let them go, and it was also dangerous to leave them as they were; he had no doubt that they were looking for an opportunity to get free. Did that mean they should just pour warm milk on them? On the one hand, some people could argue that technically that would be murder. While Ford personally thought that it would be more like an execution of three very deserving criminals, he also felt a twinge of squeamishness at the idea of killing them when they were trapped and helpless. But it wasn’t like they could let them out of the trap first...so it seemed at first like the best solution would be to just turn them back into beads again, and hide the dreamcatcher somewhere no one would ever find it. Except that on the other hand, no matter how well they hid it sooner or later someone would undoubtedly find it, or the strings binding it might unravel or something, meaning that all hell would almost literally break loose…

Ford was still mulling the problem over when his pencil was plucked from his hand and dropped onto the pages of his open journal, and a bagel was set in its place. He blinked, and then looked up and saw Stan there.

“Thanks.” He took a bite of the bagel, which had been spread with blackberry jam.

Stan shrugged. “Gotta make ya eat somehow.”

“Yes, yes.” He rolled his eyes at his twin before he went back to watching the pain-eaters.

One of whom abruptly turned to face them and asked, _“How’ssssss your back, Sssssssstanford?”_

Ford nearly choked on the mouthful of bagel, and had to force himself to swallow it. He felt his shoulder give an involuntary twinge, and he saw Stan stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

“If you’re really as good at sensing pain as we’ve heard, then you should know that my back is fine,” Ford said icily.

 _“That’sssss too bad,”_ the creature moaned. _“We ssssssstill remember how you both tasssssted when it wassssss firssssst ripped open.”_

 _“Sssssssuch a sssssspiccccccy mixxxxxxxture of fear, helplesssssnesssssss and raggggge from both of you,”_ another one gleefully purred, making a sound like if it had possessed lips, it would have been licking them.

The wall of the trap shimmered, and seconds later Ford was getting a look at himself from the back, on his knees, involuntarily thrashing as the long tongue of a whip landed on him and stripes of red began to appear on his shirt.

 _“What a feasssssst-if only we had been able to keep you longer, then we could have worked on improving the flavor even more,”_ the third one sighed. _“Ssssssseen if we could get Ssssssstanley to break your fingerssssss, or-”_

Before it could go on, Stan whirled around and stormed back up the steps.

Ford was suddenly feeling a lot less conflicted about killing the black doves.

Shooting them an infuriated glare, he hurried after his twin, absentmindedly crushing the bagel into his hand.

* * *

He didn’t have to look far; his brother was leaning against the wall just outside the secret passage (because yes, Ford was the kind of guy who would build a secret passageway into his basement even without an ultra-secret portal to another universe inside it), a hand clamped over his mouth, staring ahead of him without really seeing anything as his chest heaved up and down.

“Stan?” Ford called, slowly moving to within his line of sight. He was just reaching out to touch his shoulder, when he realized that his hand a) still had the bagel in it, and b) even if it hadn’t, it was now sticky with jam. He looked around for a moment, at a loss for what to do with the bagel, and at last stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.

Somehow, this once again seemed to snap Stan out of it more than all the suggested methods for helping people through panic attacks; the corners of his mouth turned up, and Ford could see his shoulders begin relaxing and hear his breath coming in less frantic gasps.

He tried to smile without opening his mouth, and used his non-sticky hand to rub Stan’s shoulder as he chewed.

“‘M fine, you don’t needa baby me,” Stan growled (but without actually trying to escape the contact, Ford noticed). He swallowed the last pieces of the bagel, and licked the jam away from his mouth, then began licking his fingers clean.

(He really likes blackberry jam, what can I say?)

“I told myself I wouldn’t let those jerks get ta me,” Stan grumbled at last, glaring at his shoes. “I know, it wasn’t my fault-heh, you really could say the devil made me do it this time.” He laughed mirthlessly. “But it still happened.”

“I know. I would probably be feeling the same way.” Ford curled his arm a little, allowing him to rub his twin’s back. To his relief, Stan stepped a little closer, encouraging him.

“You better not touch me with your gross spit-covered hand,” Stan muttered into his shoulder.

“Oh, now I really want to,” Ford teased, letting his hand hover over his twin’s hair.

“I will put salt in your coffee for a full month.”

“That might actually be an interesting study, seeing if I can adapt to the taste-”

“I’ll spit in it.”

“Ugh, what’s wrong with you?”

“You’re the one who was just talkin’ about learnin’ ta like the taste of salty coffee.”

* * *

By making part of itself temporarily corporeal, and with an extra hard texture, one of the black doves had created a flat surface that was hard enough for the others to rub the edge of the metal plate against it, honing it and making it nice and sharp.

Sharp enough for them to rub it back and forth against the braided strands of unicorn hair at the bottom of the trap which bound the whole thing together, and created the horrible golden field keeping them prisoner, and sharp enough to begin sawing through them.

Sharp enough that the last strands of hair were just about to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even geniuses can't remember everything all the time.  
> Unfortunately, this is why we can't have nice things, boys.


	13. Fittingly, the chapter where things take a turn for the (not all that unexpected from our point of view) worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Why is it that I'm always creatively inspired most at ridiculous hours of the night?  
> Also me: Your guess is as good as mine, sunshine.

At last Stan was relaxed enough to straighten up, and gently pushed Ford back.

“Go wash your hands, you germ-ridden slob.”

Ford let out a playfully annoyed-sounding splutter even as he turned towards the kitchen. “Oh, _I’m_ the slob? When was the last time you could be bothered to tuck in your shirt?”

“Probably the same as the last time you remembered that laundry baskets exist!” Stan yelled back.

The reminder of unsanitary cleaning habits reminded him that he had a mess of his own he should probably go clean up. But he decided to wait until after Ford finished up in the basement; there was no way he was leaving his twin with those freaks anymore than he had to.

A minute later Ford returned, the skin of his hands and around his mouth a little pink from being scrubbed clean. He raised a small eyebrow when he saw that Stan was still there, but raised no objection; he just led the way into the stairwell.

They were halfway down, when Stan froze at a noise from below.

Specifically, a loud _clink_.

To a normal person living a normal life, this might not be a cause for alarm, because it was such a small, harmless noise; the kind made by a small-ish, metal object when it lands on a hard surface. Even to someone living only a semi-normal life, it could have been just something in the lab falling over, since it was full of shelves that contained precariously placed metallic objects. But Stan’s life could not be considered normal in any way, shape or form, and so his thoughts immediately went to the trap, and the metal plate that the dreamcatcher was resting on inside it.

And he could feel dread leaping up and squeezing his heart, which sucked since it was still recovering from earlier and this was sending it spiraling all the way down into blind panic again.

He was just turning towards Ford to see if he’d heard it too and guessed what it meant...when the basement door slammed shut, and all the lights that had been on downstairs went out.

For a second all Stan could do was scream inside, while his blood froze and his heart hammered on the front of his ribcage and his eyes strained to see something besides the all-encompassing darkness because he could _not_ go through this again-

“ _S-Sta-_ ”

He licked his dry lips, tried to raise his suddenly-raspier-than-normal voice a little higher.

“ _Stanford._ ”

It wasn’t much of an improvement on his first attempt, but apparently it was loud enough for his brother; a warm hand hit him lightly in the chest from the front, before groping around for his arm and then sliding down to his hand.

“I’m right here, Stanley,” he whispered, sounding equally terrified but trying to pull himself together. His hand squeezed Stan’s briefly, before letting go. And then, mercifully, there was a clicking noise, which led to the revelation that Ford was carrying a tiny light-up keychain (unsurprisingly shaped like a spaceship). It wasn’t much, just a tiny blue light, but it was enough to calm Stan’s racing heart a little. “And I think we need to go back upstairs, right now.”

Sure enough, out of the darkness came the soft, whispery hissing voices that Stan had come to hate, farther down in the depths of the basement but coming closer every second.

Blindly, Stan turned and began stumbling up the stairs, using the handrail for probably the first time since he’d come down here, because the last thing he wanted was to trip and fall and be stuck down here with those _things_ coming for them-!

_“Ssssssssstan-leeeeeyyyy....”_

Multiple voices chimed in a singsong chorus through the air, coming closer by the second.

_“Ssssstan-leeeeyyyy...you can’t esssssscape usssss, Ssssstanley…”_

Stan gasped, feeling like knives were stabbing into his lungs (which had almost happened to him a few times), trying to run and climb at the same time even though he’d seen these things in action and knew how fast they could move, so if they were already ahead of him he didn’t stand a chance-

_No! If ya start thinkin’ like that you’re gonna have a full-out panic attack and then there’s no way you’re gonna make it outta here! Think about-think about needing ta milk their tiny black udders!_

To his udder (pun totally intended) amazement, that somehow worked, enough that he was able to crack up in hysterical laughter, even as his foot slipped on one of the steps and he landed hard, his kneecap hitting the wood with a loud _crack_.

“Stanley!” Ford grabbed him under the arms, pulling him to his feet as best he could on the narrow stairway; Stan grabbed onto the banister again, ignoring the way his knee suddenly felt like lightning was shooting through it. It was only pain, he could handle a little pain, they just needed to get to the top of the stairs and head for the living room where Dan had hung up all those dreamcatchers-

He just barely made out the black curl of smoke that appeared on the top step, growing and shifting into the familiar shape of a pale-skinned human in a black hoodie.

 _“We’re sssssssso hungry.”_ And then it un-smiled.

* * *

Matilda, with a few art books tucked under one arm and her bag of charcoals clutched in the same hand, knocked on the door of the cabin again.

“Guys? You home?” she called, peering through the window.

The question was a little ironic, considering that Dan had secretly gotten a few of the manotaurs to set up a 24-hour sentry duty around the house, so the chances of their having left again were, to say the least, unlikely.

After another second of nobody answering her, Matilda turned the doorknob-and, since it was unlocked, she went in.

_Oh, great idea, go into the unlocked house that has creepy monsters in the basement. Isn’t that how the stupid girls in horror movies always get killed off?_

_It turned out okay for Goldilocks._

_Depends what version of the story you read._

Matilda shook her head, trying to clear it of unwanted thoughts, and made her way to the living room.

No Pines men there either; that probably meant that they were in the basement with the pain-eaters.

_They really need to get an intercom system or something._

Matilda set her stuff on the giant thumb coffee table, and wandered over into that corner of the house.

“Guys?”

Still no answer.

A flicker of worry stirred in her gut that she tried to quell.

_You’re just being paranoid, Matty girl. Chill out. Those things are trapped nice and secure._

_...On the other hand, you can’t be too careful when it comes to the weird stuff in this town._

Decision made, she hurried back into the living room, snatching one of the dreamcatchers hanging on the wall, and raced back to the door, throwing it open.

There were no lights on, so all that was illuminated was the top of the steps.

But it was enough for her to see Dan’s friends, who were pinned against the wall, and being swarmed by long, curling, eel-like shapes.

For a second Matilda was frozen as her brain tried to process what she was seeing. She’d known what Dan told her, and what they’d told her, but she still hadn’t expected-

Neither of them was even _screaming_ , their heads were just lolling numbly in place, eyes vacant and unseeing-

 _Don’t just stand there,_ do _something!_

“Get away from them!” Without thinking about things any further she surged forward, swinging the dreamcatcher like a tennis racket. As soon as it touched one of the creatures, it disappeared in a flash of golden light, and the faintest hint of an unearthly scream.

Seconds later the other two jumped away from the men with horrified hisses, letting them crumple onto the stairs, and swished away into the darkness of the basement.

Matilda didn’t bother trying to go after them. She just knelt down, tying the dreamcatcher to her belt with the loop area, and began trying to drag her new friends up into the main part of the house.

It definitely would have been easier if Dan had been there, instead of having to work.

Matilda was pretty strong for her size and age, but these were still a pair of fully grown men who were at _least_ thirty pounds heavier than she was, to say nothing of being more or less catatonic at the moment, and she was also terrified of leaving either of them unattended lest the pain-eaters snatch him while her back was turned. So instead she pulled them in a pattern, first Stan for a little bit, then Ford, trying to get them the final ten feet to safety as quickly as possible.

Both of them were quivering and moaning, eyes staring unseeing ahead of them like some of the guys she’d seen who’d managed to make it back from Vietnam. The right knee of Stan’s jeans was stained with red, and his knuckles were bruised too; it looked like he’d punched something as hard as he could. Matilda hoped he hadn’t broken his fingers; they looked pretty sore.

By the time they were at the top step, right in front of the door, Matilda was drenched in sweat and trembling with exhaustion.

_Curse my weak artist arms!_

Using all the stubbornness at her disposal, she grabbed Stan under the arms again, heaving him upwards-but this time he finally moved, lurching forward with a hoarse cry of “No-!”

“Dude! Calm down, it’s me!” Matilda scrambled to keep ahold of him without their pitching forward and falling down the steps. “Stan, wake up, it’s okay, they’re gone now!”

Stan jerked and thrashed again, and it was probably only by the strength of sheer terror that she was able to keep her grip on him. But then he went still, and twisted his head in her direction.

Matilda moved until she was within his line of sight, and gave him a weak smile.

“It’s okay. I drove two of them off for now, and caught another.” She held up the dreamcatcher as evidence, letting him see the small bead in the middle of the web.

Stan's shoulders relaxed, and he looked back down towards Ford. He leaned down and grabbed his twin, pulling him the rest of the way up while clearly ignoring the pain in his leg.

They made it out into the main room, and then Matilda, ignoring her exhaustion, hurriedly grabbed more dreamcatchers; after closing the basement door, she used them to decorate it.

Stan was still ashen-faced, but he had regained enough of his strength to carry Ford into the living room, laying him down on the couch and sitting on the floor next to it. Matilda couldn’t help noticing that this allowed him to take Ford’s hand, lacing their fingers together. A little part of her squealed internally at the cuteness.

“...I know you’re not okay, but...are you at least somewhat okay?”

Stan didn’t look at her. “I’d told myself that I was never gonna let them do that ta me or Ford ever again. And then they caught us again, and began feeding on us, and there wasn’t a thing I could do ta stop it. Do you _think_ I’m okay?”

Matilda cringed. “Right. Dumb question.”

“Kinda, yeah.” He didn’t sound like he really meant it; all his attention was on his brother.

When Ford’s eyes blinked and focused a few minutes later, Matilda noticed that Stan made sure he was the first thing he saw. He still let out a strangled gasp and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but then relaxed, and his hand tightened around his twin’s.

“Matilda got one of them,” Stan said, getting straight to the point, “but there’s two still in the basement. Unless they can phase through stuff like solid metal, that is-I wouldn’t put it past ‘em.”

“...There _are_ two,” Ford muttered, even as the color returned to his complexion, “You used the wrong verb.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Whatever, you pedantic dork.”

Ford sat himself up, and looked over at Matilda. “Thank you, Matilda. Now you and Dan have both quite literally saved our lives.” His voice was a little shaky, but he was composing himself faster than she thought she would’ve.

“Hey, no problem.” She shrugged. “Apparently it’s part of the package of hanging around you guys.”

“I got a plan for how ta get 'em,” Stan said, moving up to sit on the couch next to his twin.

Ford glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He explained the plan.

“...It’s a little unorthodox,” Ford said slowly. “And if it doesn’t work the consequences could be...disastrous.”

“Yeah, but we can pull it off it’ll take care of ‘em quickly, before they decide ta go after anyone else, and they can’t hurt us ever again.”

“I still have reservations-”

“Look, Ford, if we do this and it works, I’ll-” Stan hesitated- “I’ll play your nerd game with you. Dungeons-and-whatever.”

Ford’s jaw dropped. “...You _will_?”

“Don’t get all excited,” he growled, folding his arms, “I’m not promisin’ that I’ll like it.”

“Still! This opens up so many opportunities for dungeons to create-”

“Let’s focus on actually makin’ the plan _work_ first, yeah?” Stan turned to Matilda. “You in?”

She nodded grimly. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...At least that didn't last too long, right?


	14. Dan is not the only member of the team who can get dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the last couple of days have been pretty helltic (hectic doesn't feel like a strong enough term).  
> This is because I had to drive all the way from Texas to Arizona to live for the summer, and I made the (possibly somewhat foolish) decision to do the whole trip in one day so I wouldn't have to spend money on a hotel or brave the potential dangers of being a lone woman parked at a rest stop. And then, when I got to my new home and slept well into the late morning due to exhaustion, when I woke up it was to the unpleasant discovery that a woman had stolen my license plates because I might have accidentally sideswiped her car, which led to this enormous insurance debacle.  
> Trust me, I could not be making this up if I tried.  
> Thankfully, they have been returned, and everything has settled down enough for me to work on this chapter.
> 
> On the bright side, check out this GORGEOUS artwork Artistic Arteries did for chapter four: https://artisticarteriesart.tumblr.com/post/618775167975424000/as-his-heavy-eyelids-lightened-he-finally

There were only two of them left.

They were not happy about this; it was so hard to think the more separated they became.

Especially when they were sooo hungry…

The little meal they’d been able to snag from their prey before they were taken away had been marvelous, after they’d spent so long starving, but it was all older stuff, not like the flavors of pain they’d been able to wring out of their prey before, not like the flavors they _wanted_ to have from them.

One suggested just leaving and finding other prey; they could sense the emotions of many bull-men close by, maybe they could feed on them?

The other argued that it wouldn’t be the same, and besides, they didn’t want to feed on bull-men, who could feel pain, yes, but rarely allowed themselves to experience any kind of real fear; they wanted to feed on the Pineses, on that delicious blend of pain and guilt and self-loathing that sent tingly dark energy coursing through their systems for hours afterwards. They knew what they wanted, and it was only a matter of time before they could have it, they just needed to come up with a plan that would help them to make their way around the death webs that kept being set up, and bring them down into the darkness again-and this time, they would make sure they could never come back out.

And then, there was a rumble from above, and a voice called out, “Hey, uglies!”

Stanley was standing there, and he was in fresh pain; just the bouquet of it left both of them dizzy with desire.

They came gliding on an updraft until they were close enough to get a better look.

The pain was emanating strongest from Stanley’s knee, and his hands-and, they realized, there was a fresh amount of it on his arm, which they could see burning with pain from a long wound that was dripping with blood. In his other hand was something they realized was a knife, most likely the reason for the wound.

There was no sign of his brother or the female.

“I wanna make a deal with you,” Stanley said, standing straight as possible despite the fear fluctuating around him like its own personal aura, and the clear agony it was giving him to stand on the leg with the throbbing knee.

They said nothing for the moment, just hovered and watched him warily.

“You guys came after us cuz ya liked the taste of my pain, right?” Stanley continued once he realized they weren’t going to answer. “Kept comin’ inta my dreams ta dredge up nightmares ya could feed on, and said I was the one ya really wanted, not Ford?”

 _“Yessss,”_ one of them admitted.

“Well, if ya stop hurtin’ him, and leave everyone else alone, you can have me as your own personal food source for as long as I live. How’s that sound?”

They had not been expecting this.

While they knew enough about Stanley to know that he valued the safety of his brother more than even his own life, they also knew that whether he admitted it or not, he was terrified of them and what they could do to him. And it was so hard to focus when he was _right there_ , just waiting to be fed on...

At last, though, one of them asked, struggling to clear its thoughts, _“Why sssssshhhhouldn’t we jussssst keep both of you assssss we planned? We know how mucccchhhh pain it causssssesssss you to ssssssee him hurt-”_

 _“Or to be forced to hurt him yourssssssself,”_ the other took over, curling around Stan’s shoulders like the world’s most evil scarf and whispering the words right into his ear. _“You really think your pain alone can lassssst asssssss long without growing ssssssstale to ussssss?”_

Stan gulped, but said doggedly, “Yeah, ya could do that. But don’t ya know how much _agony_ it would be for me, bein’ separated from him forever, knowin’ he’s free ta live his life without me, that he abandoned me for you ta feed on and hurt?” The emotional pain these words created was even more delectable than the physical, making the one wrapped around him quiver and whine. “Besides, I can keep creatin’ fresh pain for you ta eat all on my own. Get a whiff o’ this.” And he slashed the knife right across his ribs, making more warm dampness spill out, and more delicious pain rise up.

“Come on, have a taste. Ya know ya want to.”

They couldn’t wait a second longer. With hisses of hungry glee, they threw themselves at him, slurping eagerly at all that delicious pain that they’d been deprived of for so long, going for the fresh injuries where it was strongest-

They realized too late their mistake.

* * *

_Huh. These things really are blind._

Ford had argued that Stan was taking too much of a risk by being the bait, and that there was no need for him to actually use the knife on himself at all. But he’d worried that if the pain-eaters got so much as a hint that they were being tricked, this whole plan would be over before it began, and he’d drawn a little blood from his arm-enough that hopefully it masked the scent of the warm milk (warm enough that it burned his skin upon contact) which he’d poured over his arm and hidden in a plastic baggie under his shirt, in case these things had any sense of smell, which it now appeared they didn’t.

It was something that they were paying the price for, screeching pathetically as they began melting into sludge. They tried to escape, but then Ford and Matilda came from the corners of the room they’d been hiding in, and hit them from either side with a fresh deluge of warm milk that made the remnants dissolve away. Stan, despite his being all wet and sticky now, grinned in savage satisfaction as he watched.

“Wither and die, you pain-sucking freaks of nature.”

Matilda tossed the dreamcatcher bearing the last dove into the puddle of milk; it sizzled, and if he listened carefully Stan thought he could hear a tiny screech for just a second.

For a moment the threesome just stood there, panting and letting the adrenaline trickle away. Stan was even starting to feel a little dizzy; he thought it might be due to the realization that they were finally good and safe.

Or, he realized, as his knee decided that it had taken enough pain and gave out under him, and Ford was forced to catch him before he could face plant into the floor, maybe it was pain and blood loss.

* * *

“You’re lucky this isn’t fractured or something,” Matilda said, examining Stan’s kneecap with a critical eye. He’d tried to protest that he could handle his own injuries even as he was herded into the kitchen and (to his embarrassment) stripped down to his underthings, but his protests had been blatantly ignored until he gave up. “It’s still a pretty nasty scrape, and there’s some intense bruising, but not anything that’ll be permanently crippling. You should still take it easy for a while.”

“Mmph.” Stan winced as she dabbed at it again with a damp cloth, but he’d at last realized that they were going to take care of him whether he liked it or not, and he submitted to the administration meekly.

“I wonder if black doves have souls,” Ford mused as he finished cleaning the cut on Stan’s arm and got started bandaging it. “If so, could they maybe come back as ghosts? That would be both interesting and horrifying-”

“Don’t jinx us, Poindexter,” Stan grumbled, flicking his ear.

All three of them froze at the sound of a truck pulling up in the driveway.

A minute later Dan knocked on the door that let you into the kitchen from outside, and then threw it open without waiting for permission to come in.

As soon as he laid eyes on them, he visibly relaxed-but then he took note of the fact that they were patching Stan up. His face turned almost as red as his hair, and his grip tightened on the giant jug of milk he was holding, which was literally steaming at the lid.

“What. Happened.”

“We milked them,” Matilda said proudly. A second later she realized how that sounded, but too late to stop the boys from snorting, and then cracking up in mutual hysterical laughter.

Matilda waited until they’d calmed down before explaining to Dan what had happened. He actually _growled_ at them as he slammed the milk jug onto the counter.

“I _told_ you that trap was a stupid idea-”

“You’re also the one who gave Ford the pain-eaters and told him ta study them if he wanted, so this isn’t just on us,” Stan felt obligated to point out. A second later he shrank away from the lumberjack’s scowl.

Dan glared for a moment...and then let out a “you have a point but I’m too p_ssed to admit it” noise, and sat down heavily in the fourth chair, arms folded.

Funny; his anger seemed to have burned out faster than the last couple of times it had flared up about this, Stan thought, frowning. Maybe it was because they’d taken care of the problem before anything too bad could happen? Or maybe he was more easily pacified because they’d just gotten rid of the black doves like they should’ve all along?

“Why did you bring so much milk?” Ford asked, glancing over at Dan. “Did you hear from your new bodyguards that we were in trouble or something?”

“No, I was just guessing that somethin’ had happened ta you idiots by now,” he grumbled. “And I wanted ta be able ta take care of it.”

So he wasn’t just mad. He’d been worried that…

“Well, we wouldn’t’ve known how ta get rid of ‘em without you showin’ us how in the first place,” Stan said with a shrug. “So ya saved us without even bein’ here-that’s a new record for you.”

Ford nodded, catching on to what he was doing. Then he added, “We’re safe, Dan. We’re not going anywhere.”

“Don’t turn this into a chick flick moment,” Dan growled, even as his shoulders relaxed.

Matilda smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. “Too late.”


	15. Epilogue

The boys didn’t even try sleeping in separate rooms that night.

By unspoken agreement they set up the spare mattress Dan had given them in the living room, and set up candles and dreamcatchers on every available surface. Then they just lay quietly for a while, staring up at the ceiling.

“Should’ve asked Dan if he had anymore scumble before he took Matilda home,” Stan muttered at last.

Ford hummed in agreement. Then he added, “Of course, it might be for the best that we didn’t. I shudder to think what that stuff does to your liver, and probably all the rest of your intestines while it’s at it. And it would react badly with the painkillers you’re on right now.”

“Whatever.” Stan turned on his side and mashed his face into his pillow.

Ford lifted a hand towards his shoulder for a moment...but then lowered it and closed his eyes.

* * *

It probably wasn’t more than an hour later that he was opening them again, putting a hand over his pounding heart and trying to get it to relax.

“Sixer? You okay?”

He squinted over in the direction of his brother, and a second later his glasses were being placed on his nose so he could actually see him.

Stan was sitting on the edge of the mattress, pad of paper and charcoal in his hands.

Ford sat up slowly. “...I feel like I should be the one asking you that.”

Stan scoffed. “Eh, havin’ trouble sleeping.” He rubbed the bandage on his arm with a grimace. “Arm hurts. So I was just...practicing.” After a second, he turned the paper so Ford could see.

At the bottom of the page was a half-finished sketch of what appeared to be Ford himself, sleeping. Some of the proportions were a little off-for one thing, he hoped that his nose was nowhere close to taking up that much of his face-but the hair looked good, and you could definitely tell who it was supposed to be, though that might have been just because he knew himself and his brother so well.

The disturbing part was the dark, shadowy shapes that had been drawn hovering in the air over him, reaching out with long, greedy tendrils. Just looking at it sent chills down his spine.

“...Guess even though they’re gone, they’re still tryna stick around, kinda,” Stan whispered.

Ford went with his instincts this time and put his hand on his shoulder.

“And it seems unfortunately likely that they will for a long time.”

“Great. Just what I needed in my life; more nightmares.” But Stan relaxed into his hold, just a little, even as he added a few more details to the drawing.

Encouraged, Ford gave him a small tug. “Come back to sleep.”

Stan gave him kind of a weird look. “If I didn’t understand the context of the situation, that would sound really bad.”

It took Ford a second to understand the implication; when he did, he blushed, but said, “Just c’mon.”

“Okay, okay.”

Stan set aside his art supplies, and lay down, stretching himself out. Ford lay down too...and then, on an impulse, put hesitant arms around his shoulders, mindful of his injuries. Stan startled, but he didn’t make any wiseacre remarks about it, he just twisted and draped one of his own arms over Ford’s waist, squeezing a little. Ford allowed his heavy eyes to close again, focusing on the comforting presence at his side.

This time they were able to sleep uninterrupted by nightmares.

* * *

**_Three days later_ **

“...But just before you can approach the treasure, the demogorgon appears, ready to tear your party to shreds if you cross the seal!”

“Of course it does,” Matilda groaned, already grabbing her dice.

Stan snatched up his dice first. “I wanna roll for Bluff.”

Ford shot his twin an exasperated stare over the dungeon board. “You can’t bluff the demogorgon, Stanley, it can’t understand your language, and its mindset is too settled on its goal to be bluffed by anything else.”

Then Stan grinned. “I’m not talkin’ about the demogorgon, I’m talkin’ about the seal.”

Dan, who was waiting impatiently for them to stop talking and start actually fighting, let out a startled snort.

Ford stared in disbelief. “You want. To bluff. The seal.”

Stan gave him a challenging smirk back. “Yup.”

Ford snatched up one of his books and flipped towards a section in the back, scanning it. At last he looked up, eyes narrowed.

“There’s nothing explicitly saying you can’t, so you know what, fine. I’ll allow it.”

“Come on, new pair of twins, new pair of twins!” Stan shook the dice, dropped it onto the table. “YEAH BABY! Natural 38!”

Ford sighed. “The seal,  _ for some unknown reason _ , doesn’t realize that you’ve reached across it, so you’re able to grab the treasure without being mauled by the demogorgon.”

Stan pumped his fist gleefully. “Yes!”

“...But then, once the demogorgon sees that the treasure is gone, it realizes that you’re probably the ones responsible, and it attacks anyway!”

“Still worth it!”

* * *

It was a very long, close battle, but eventually Dan was able to strike the killing blow, and the last of the demogorgon’s lifeless heads toppled to the floor.

Matilda grinned as her sorcerer was allowed to add several new awesome spells to her selection, and continued working on her character drawing. Dan’s barbarian cut off one of the heads to keep as a trophy.

“Does the demigorgon or whatever have pockets?” Stan asked. “I wanna pickpocket it.”

“NO.”

“You’re no fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Stan denies enjoying Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons. Ford just rolls his eyes at him and asks if he wants to play again later; Stan grumbles a little, and finally says sure, if it'll keep you happy, you giant nerd.
> 
> Later that week Matilda comes over again, and says she's found a therapist who might be able to help them; she lives in a remote corner of the forest, but she's got a good reputation there with creatures who've had to deal with trauma, and she's okay with them paying her in gnome beard hair.  
> Stan is a bit weirded out by anyone wanting to be paid in beard hair, from gnomes or otherwise, but as long as she's not asking for the prices most psychiatrists are charging he's cool with that.
> 
> Oh, sorry, but if your knee-jerk assumption is to think this is a future version of Mabel, you're barking up the wrong tree.  
> Sorry.
> 
> Also, part of this chapter was inspired by an immensely entertaining tumblr post that I found: https://justdiarythoughts.tumblr.com/post/164201637948


End file.
